


When Fire Keeps Its Promise to Warm

by LSquared80



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Brienne is not thrilled about sex with her husband (at first), Casterly Rock, F/M, Lord and Lady Lannister, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Pregnancy, Smut, The usual bickering, by chapter 6 Brienne quite likes sex with her husband
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2020-07-24 17:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 72,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSquared80/pseuds/LSquared80
Summary: Jaime was imprisoned for killing King Aerys. Years later his release was contingent upon one thing - marriage to Brienne of Tarth.The story begins two years into their marriage, with Jaime returning home after a long separation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're familiar with my story, The Shape of Time, I've taken the plot of the last few chapters (Jaime's punishment for killing King Aerys is marrying Brienne) and re-purposed it here. The difference being that Jaime is not a willing participant (yet) and did not manipulate the situation so he could take Brienne as a wife. 
> 
> The title comes from the Jane Hirshfield poem "A Blessing for Wedding."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to add a beautiful graphic by Ro_Nordmann! Thank you!

A dress has been collecting dust in the wardrobe for a year. It was sewn from red and gold silks for Brienne to wear upon the return of her husband from the war. “I did not wear a dress for our wedding. Why would I wear one now?” she had asked. When word came that he and other men had been intercepted on the journey home and imprisoned in Salt Shore, the ladies looked at Brienne as though her refusal to conform had been the cause of it. 

She is reminded of the garment upon news of his release and again upon the eve of his return home. But when Brienne is called to greet him, she arrives in the Great Hall wearing a shift tucked into breeches. 

“My lady,” her attendant whispers, “the dress?” 

Brienne answers with a shrug. She surveys the table set for two and the feast fit for a King and Queen and their kingdom – a thick soup of barley and venison, mutton, spiced squash, loaves of bread, leeks and carrots, sliced melon and plums, custard and honey cakes. She turns to ask if anyone else will be joining them only to find she’s been left alone. 

She pours wine into a chalice and takes a sip. The liquid sears a path down her throat, making her wince, until it spreads warmly in her belly. Another sip and another and Brienne can feel the tension unravel in her shoulders. She pours more and tilts her head back to down it at once. 

“Save some for your poor husband.” 

Brienne wipes a dribble of wine from the corner of her mouth but does not turn toward the sound of Jaime’s voice. She closes her eyes and takes several quick breaths. She sets the chalice on the table and rotates slowly to face him. 

“They do not serve wine in battle or the prisons,” he goes on. “How I’ve missed it.” He stands, waiting – for a response, a reaction. Getting none, he says, “I hope the war did not leave you too lonely.” 

“I hoped the war would make me a widow,” Brienne tells him, and for a brief moment she thinks Jaime looks wounded by her words. 

“That is no way to greet your lord husband.” He steps further into the room and closer to the candlelight. If he’d been hurt by what she said there is no longer a trace of it in his green eyes. 

She can tell he’s been cleaned and shaved and dressed in a new leather jerkin. Brienne’s breath catches at the sight. She doesn’t have to love or even like her husband to recognize that Jaime Lannister is a beautiful man. She can see the war and subsequent imprisonment did nothing to his appearance but grow his hair longer. The weight he lost is inconsequential; it will return to his bones after he partakes of the feast. 

“You’re quite right,” Brienne says. She pours wine into the second chalice and carries it to him. Stopping an arm’s length away, she gives him a formal nod. “Welcome home.” She lifts her hand, offering the wine. 

Jaime takes the chalice from her. “I hope this isn’t Dornish,” he says, but drains most of it from the cup regardless. His eyes sweep along the table. “I’m famished. Shall we?” 

She nods and takes her seat. When Jaime appears to be waiting for her to begin, Brienne says, “You start,” and watches him fill a plate with mostly meat. 

He has worked his way through a second helping of every dish and started on the honey cake before he speaks again. “I was glad to see Casterly Rock is still standing. I suppose it wasn’t very difficult for you to be both lady and lord in my stead.” 

Brienne glares at him across the table and stabs a piece of meat with her knife, eating it from the tip of the blade. 

“Aren’t you going to inquire about my capture?" 

She thinks how she’s been more or less a prisoner on Casterly Rock since after their wedding, and that wine is not all the Dornish are known for. “I can’t imagine it was all that terrible for you. I’ve seen how the men and women behave there. I’ve seen their attire.” 

Jaime grins. He wipes his finger along the surface of his plate, gathering cake crumbs and dribbles of honey. He sucks his finger into his mouth, licking it clean and releasing it from between his lips with a pop. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy?” 

Rolling her eyes, she states, “Not at all.” Brienne takes a bite of cake and washes it down with another drink of wine. She stands from her seat. “I’m rather tired, as I’m sure you are. Goodnight, Ser Jaime.” She doesn’t wait for him to respond, and when she nearly collides with Tywin in the doorway, she only acknowledges her goodfather with a curt nod. 

* 

The food is cleared away but Jaime asks for more wine. It is delivered to the table but intercepted by Tywin; he grips the bottle and stares gravely at his son. 

“What?” Jaime asks. 

“You and Brienne have been married for two years without producing an heir,” Tywin states. 

Jaime rolls his eyes. “Need I remind you, father, I’ve been away for one of those years.” 

“And the one before that?” 

“She returned to Tarth when her father took ill. Not once but twice.” 

Tywin releases his hold on the bottle and says, “That is precisely why you should not be sitting here getting drunk while your wife is alone in bed.” He shakes his head. “I never should have let you fight in that nonsense of a war. Let the Dothraki have The Stepstones! The only thing you accomplished was costing me a fortune to free you from Dorne and delaying putting a babe in Brienne’s belly. You should have been here, as Lord of Casterly Rock, with your wife.” 

“I never wanted to marry that beast.” 

Tywin slams his hand on the table. “You would be on the Night’s Watch or dead if Lord Selwyn had not agreed to a union between his daughter and the Kingslayer. Or have you forgotten that beast saved your life?” 

Jaime heaves a breath and grabs the bottle. He pours wine until it begins to flow over the rim of the chalice. He gulps it down as his father rises from the table, shaking his head in disgust. Alone in the Great Hall, Jaime leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, conjuring the memory of how he met Brienne and came to be her husband. 

_The ship bobbed on the water and Jaime wretched into the Narrow Sea. He had spent the last decade in a prison cell for killing The Mad King, and the sudden change from being surrounded by dank concrete to bouncing water was taking a toll on him. He’d been trying to guess their destination, but watching the scenery only made his condition worse._

_Tywin slapped him on the back and said, “Pull it together, son. You need to make a good impression when we get there.”_

_“Where is_ there _?”_

_“Tarth.”_

_x_

_There hadn’t been time to ask why they were sailing to Tarth; Jaime had to vomit over the side of the ship again, and twice after that. Suddenly, all was still and Tywin was giving him clean clothes to change into._

_“What’s in Tarth?” Jaime asked, finally, as the boat docked and he felt solid ground under his feet._

_Tywin took a deep breath before he said, “Your soon-to-be wife.”_

_x_

_Jaime protested as the carriage trudged up hills and rolled along uneven, winding roads._

_“I appealed to King Robert for your release on the basis of you being the only viable Lannister heir to carry on the family name. You have two choices, son,” Tywin told him. “You can serve on the Night’s Watch or take a wife and be Lord of Casterly Rock.”_

_“Staying in prison was not an option?” Jaime asked; he had not lost his sense of humor in the cell._

_Ignoring him, Tywin said, “There aren’t many young ladies in Westeros who want to marry the Kingslayer. There aren’t many fathers who want to marry their daughters off to him either.”_

_Jaime did not like the implications there. “What you’re saying is my soon-to-be wife is desperate for a husband?”_

_“She’s a nice young woman, Jaime. From a good family.”_

_It was a kind way of saying she was ugly, Jaime knew. “What’s her name?”_

_x_

_“Brienne!”_

_Jaime listened as Selwyn Tarth shouted for his daughter. The man – towering above the Lannisters – had seemed even-tempered, but anger edged into his voice each time he had to call for the young woman and received no answer._

_“She is probably with the horses,” Selwyn said._

_“Jaime, why don’t you look for her,” Tywin suggested._

_Jaime glared at his father. “I don’t know what she looks like,” he said, and he noticed a brief but awkward glance between Selwyn and his father._

_“She’s quite tall,” Selwyn told him and pointed in the direction of the stables._

_x_

_Only horses occupied the stables. Jaime wandered further, able to appreciate the clean, salty air of Tarth as his equilibrium was restored. He was stopped in his tracks by the unmistakable scrape of steel being unsheathed from a scabbard. Hand on the hilt of his own sword, Jaime spun to face the threat. He squinted; the glare of sun marled his view of the person’s face, but he could tell his possible opponent was a rather tall man. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes and nearly laughed. “Are you a..._ woman _?”_

_She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. Her nostrils flared at the cruel tone of his voice._

_“Are you_ Brienne _?” He received no answer, but Jaime knew she had to be his betrothed. She was the ugliest woman he’d ever seen, and it made sense that her father would be worried enough about her chances of finding a husband that he’d consider a disgraced knight. She was tall and the blonde hair on her head was cut shorter than Jaime’s. She wore breeches and if she had a woman’s shape, it was hidden under the billow of a shift. Her plump lips were chapped and barely contained her overly prominent, crooked teeth. The saving grace of her face was her eyes – blue as the water he’d sailed on._

_Jaime took a step closer and said, “Do you have any idea who you drew a sword on?” He paused to allow a response. Given none, he told her, “I’m Ser Jaime Lannister.”_

_“The Kingslayer.” She spat the moniker at him, her tongue curling around it with spite and glee. “It would seem my instincts are spot-on.”_

_The corners of his mouth flinched into a sneer. He was prevented from launching a retort when his father and Lord Selwyn appeared._

_“I see the two of you have met,” Tywin said._

_Jaime swore his father was delighting in his son’s misfortune, and he observed a moment of strain between the Tarths; when Lord Selwyn reached to put his arm around his daughter, she stiffened and avoided the embrace._

_x_

_The days on Tarth were long and fraught. Jaime and Brienne were both hoarse from heated conversations with their respective fathers, and more than once he heard Tywin and Selwyn engaged in a shouting match. His only hope of not marrying Brienne the Beauty was her father’s reluctance to tie his daughter to the kind of knight who could betray his oath._

_Jaime escaped the confines of his room at dusk, walking the lush grass under a plum sky. Despite the circumstances, he was grateful to be able to roam free. His imprisonment on King’s Landing hadn’t been all bad – there were visits from Cersei, though scant, and he was released once a day to train – but everything had been on someone else’s schedule._

_He found Brienne in the training yard and watched her lunge at an imaginary opponent, slicing at the air with a wooden sword. “Don’t grunt, my lady,” he said, startling her. “You give yourself away.”_

_She pushed a frustrated breath through her teeth. “I’m no lady,” she retorted, and then asked, “Did my father send you?”_

_Jaime shook his head. “I don’t think your father much cares for me, wench.”_

_Brienne glared as if to say his chosen term of endearment was no better. “Then why is he arranging our marriage?”_

_He approached her, standing close enough to see a smear of dirt on her cheek. Jaime opened his mouth to speak._

_“Don’t answer that,” Brienne said. “I already know. I’m his only heir and he’s worried the Tarth lineage will die with me.” Most girls were married off by the age of ten and six, and it was well known she had surpassed that by four years. “Every suitor I’ve had has left here black and blue.”_

_Jaime grinned at that but also found himself taking a slight step back. “My father says I can either swear myself to you or to the Night’s Watch.”_

_“I suppose I should be flattered if you choose me, but I’m not. Neither of us wins. Marrying_ me _is still your punishment.”_

_He could not argue the statement. Brienne was not his intended solely because she was the only woman in need of a husband enough to settle for him. The King and his counsel had no doubt named her because they knew it would inflict a lifetime of displeasure on Jaime. Tywin Lannister could have his gaggle of heirs, but they could be cursed with Brienne of Tarth’s looks. Even Cersei would likely give the marriage her stamp of approval; no chance of her beloved brother ever desiring or loving his wife more than his sister. He saw the shine of tears in her eyes and almost felt worse for her than himself; the misery of knowing you were being courted for your lack of beauty!_

_“It can’t be all bad,” he offered, though Jaime's tone signified he himself was not fully convinced._

_“How?” Brienne asked, quickly wiping the back of her hand across her eye right eye to catch a tear before it fell._

_Jaime drew in a long breath, buying time. He spotted another wooden sword on the ground and went to fetch it. “I can teach you how to fight.”_

_She scoffed but he caught a glimpse of pleasure flash across her face._

_“You need to practice with something heavier,” Jaime said, tossing and catching the sword to demonstrate its lightness._

_A while later, Selwyn and Tywin found their grown children standing in a cloud of dirt, wooden swords crossed. When the dust settled, Jaime noticed them, and he noticed the moment Lord Selwyn decided to allow the marriage; Brienne was smiling._

* 

Brienne calls for a bath and soaks until the pads of her fingers and toes prune. 

She climbs out of the water and moves near the fire to let the heat dry her skin, dripping water across the room. Facing the flames, she hears the door squeak open and expects its one of the girls returning to check on her. “I’m alright,” she says, annoyed. Brienne hears the door close and turns around. She gasps at the sight of Jaime standing inside her chambers. 

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he reminds her when she crosses one arm across her chest and reaches a hand down to shield the tuft of wiry, blonde hair between her thighs. It’s the truth but also a lie; Jaime never spent much time gazing at her body, and what he sees now is not at all what he recalls of her from before. She has changed in his time away. 

“My robe is on the chair,” she snaps. 

Jaime finds it and hands it to her. He averts his eyes but sneaks a sidelong glance as she slips her arms into the sleeves. 

Brienne ties the robe closed, the knot snug enough she may need help loosening it later. “You should have knocked.” 

“This is my room too, remember?” 

She flinches. “Well, it hasn’t been for a long while. I maintain you should have knocked.” 

He holds his hands up in surrender. 

Brienne hadn’t considered he would return and so soon sleep beside her. She sits on the edge of the bed and doesn’t know where she thought Jaime would rest his head, but it wasn’t in her- in their room. In a sense she had expected, if he did return home, he would be vastly different. So far, she finds Jaime to be as smug as ever. 

She swings her legs onto the bed, settling under the covers. She hears the rustle of fabric before she realizes he is undressing. Brienne groans her disapproval but watches sideways as he, already relieved of his shirt, tugs on the strings holding his breeches in place. The material loosens around his hips and slips down to his knees. She watches as Jaime shoves them all the way to his ankles, kicking them aside. 

He is down to his smallclothes and she can’t help but be reminded of their wedding night. 

_She had come to terms with becoming Lady Lannister in the sept when Jaime draped the cloak over her shoulders, adding a sense of finality to the proceedings. It was then Brienne began to dread what happened_ after _they were pronounced man and wife._

_Through the remainder of the nuptials and the feast that followed, she had to battle for breath against the lump in her throat. She had begged her father to do away with the bedding ceremony, but she knew what happened when men – and even women – drank too much at a wedding; the ribaldry could mean she and her father were defenseless against custom._

_Unbeknownst to Brienne, her new lord husband had overheard a huddle of Lannister cousins plotting the bedding. The men wanted it so they could remove her clothes piece by piece and verify their cousin had truly married a woman. Jaime had paid Tyrion to cause a diversion, and by the time the bride and groom were ready to take their leave, all the men could do was linger outside the room and press their ears to the door._

_It was almost as bad, she’d realized, as the two of them stood on opposite sides of the room with the sound of other men reaching them through the wall. Brienne moved to extinguish several candles, leaving only enough light to see her way to the bed. She lowered her gaze to the floor as Jaime stripped down to his shift and smallclothes, every article of clothing landing with a soft thud at his feet. She looked up in time to see him grasp the hem of his shirt and peel it up the length of his torso. He discarded it and her breath snagged at the sight of his skin glowing in the soft candlelight._

_Even in the near darkness, Brienne could see the shape of muscles in his arms and the broad planes of his bare chest dusted with light-colored hairs. She was surprised by the way her mouth went dry and she felt the urge to squeeze her legs together. She’d always known he was handsome, but Septa Roelle had described a man’s body in such grotesque terms that Brienne had not been prepared to like the look of him._

_He looked at her expectantly across the bed, and when she did not move a muscle, he circled around to stand before her. “I can help you,” Jaime said, reaching for the strings tied in a bow at the hollow of her neck._

_Brienne swatted at his hand. “No, don’t. Don’t look at me.” In the dark he wouldn’t even be able to see her blue eyes, the only feature she knew other people found aesthetically pleasing._

_He turned to face the wall._

_Her fingers trembled, struggling to loosen knots and lift the barriers between Jaime and her skin. If asked, Brienne would truthfully state she was not nervous about losing her maidenhead. Rather, she was disgusted to know that a man without honor was going to take hers. She decided not to remove the sleeveless shift she’d worn beneath her tunic and whispered, “Okay.”_

_Jaime turned, understanding it was as naked as she intended to be. With none of her hesitation, he divested himself of his smallclothes._

_She held her head high and lifted her gaze even higher, refusing to look. The two of them had shared only two conversations about sex prior to the wedding; in the first, Brienne confirmed she was a maiden after Jaime made crude jokes and suggestions. In the second, she confronted him about the rumors of his relations with Queen Cersei. He confessed they had lain together out of curiosity and loneliness - failing to conceal their forbidden affair had managed to continue after her marriage to King Robert and during his imprisonment. To her great shock, she felt more uncomfortable about how her body would compare to his beautiful sister than the implications of the siblings’ relationship._

_The men outside the door knocked and hollered and grunted. They shouted obscene suggestions and Jaime reached around Brienne to fold the covers down on the bed. “We have to do... something,” he said._

_She nodded but did not move._

_“Wench,” he said through gritted teeth, and then, softly, “Brienne.”_

_“I know,” she whispered, barely audible._

_Jaime sighed. “We could pretend,” he suggested. “Make... noises.”_

_She appreciated his offer but knew enough to know it would not work. “They will check for blood,” she stated matter-of-factly, and it was then she turned to the bed and stretched herself across it. She fixed her eyes on the ceiling. Jaime cleared his throat and she felt her body shift on the mattress as he knelt there beside her._

_Jaime maneuvered to cover her body with his own, and Brienne closed her eyes as she felt the weight of him sink down onto her. She waited, but he did nothing more. “Well, get on with it,” she snapped._

_He urged her legs apart but her limbs were heavy and stiff. “I will not force you.”_

_“You are not forcing me. I... have no choice.”_

_“Is that not the same thing?”_

_“_ We _have no choice,” she clarified. “You killed King Aerys and I was born ugly and now here we are. Married. Punished for our crimes.” The way Jaime looked at her made Brienne uncomfortable; there was too much concern shining in his eyes. “You are not forcing me,” she said again. “I simply... don’t know where to start.”_

_He nodded and when he nudged her thighs apart with his knee, Brienne bent her legs, letting him settle between them. She felt him reach one hand between their bodies. Her eyes widened when Jaime rubbed the warm flesh of her cunt, and her body jerked and her fists pushed against his chest._

_“Trust me,” Jaime whispered. “You don’t want it to hurt more than it has to. Alright?”_

_“Alright,” she answered shakily. She gasped when he touched her again, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the nub she’d to that point only explored by herself. A moan escaped her lips and, embarrassed by the noise, she could feel a blush crawl across her cheeks and down her neck._

_Brienne turned her head aside when his lips brushed hers, and instead he kissed and suckled at her neck. Soon, his mouth sought hers again and she did not resist. It was clumsy, their teeth knocking together, her lips too rigid. She gasped when Jaime used a finger to stretch her, to prepare her, and she whispered a strangled, “Yes,” when asked if she was ready for him._

_She whimpered when Jaime pushed inside her. He repeated the movement again and again and again, and each time she took more of him. Soon he was resting his forearms on either side of her body, caging her in, and thrusting slowly. She winced at the initial discomfort – a slight burn, a sharp ache._

_The bed creaked loudly in rhythm with his hips. Brienne heard cheering on the other side of the door. She opened her eyes and was surprised to see Jaime gazing down at her. He offered a slight smile, and then his eyes fluttered closed and he dropped his head to her shoulder. She could feel his breath in hot puffs of air against her neck, and again he moved one hand to between their bodies, rubbing her in furious circles. She didn’t know when it had happened, but her arms were wrapped around him, hands clasped together at his lower back._

_Brienne found the work of his body pleasant; small sparks of electricity had her on the cusp of gratification when Jaime suddenly grunted and his body spasmed as he spilled into her. He was finished, and while she didn’t know what to make of it so soon after, she found sex had been nothing like what Septa Roelle prepared her for. She was left with an oddly pleasurable but frustrating throb between her legs and wondered if that was what Jaime apologized for when he said, “I’m sorry,” against the thin fabric of her shift._

Brienne’s memory makes her sorry for being ornery with him. Jaime has been known to have good intentions. Reminded of that, she is no less nervous about the next day and each after that, but Brienne feels slightly better about finding her footing as Lady Lannister again. 

Beside her, Jaime shifts and settles on his back. He had told his wife that her naked body was nothing he hadn’t seen before, but he can’t stop taking an inventory of all the ways it is new and different. Her backside is curvier than he recalled, and while the muscles in her back that had once seemed bulky and bulging are no less strong, it’s as though the rest of her has caught up to their size. Her body seems longer and leaner, and when she’d turned to face him, Jaime had been pleasantly surprised to see the slight indentation of a waist above her narrow hips. She had never let him see her breasts, and though small, he found them no less appealing. Above her neck, Brienne’s mouth has changed to better accommodate her teeth. Her lips look softer, less bitten. 

“Fuck,” Jaime whispers. 

He doesn’t realize he said it aloud until Brienne asks, “What?” 

“Nothing,” he lies. 

Jaime feels Brienne move and glances to see her roll onto her side, facing away from him. He can see that her hair is different, too. It’s still short, but thicker and wavy, and he clenches his hands into fists at the urge to touch the strands. 

Sharing the bed with her, Jaime can’t help but think back to their wedding night. It had not been passionate. It _had_ been awkward; he hadn’t been able to last long and there was sorrow in their hearts, even dread. But much to his surprise, Jaime had not needed to think of his sister at all to get through their first time. In the immediate aftermath he’d attributed his arousal and quick climax to how long it had been since he’d lain with a woman; in the time he served for killing King Aerys, sex with Cersei was limited, and during his so-called courting of Brienne, swordplay was the only physicality. 

Looking back, Jaime has to admit the ability to fuck his new wife had more to do with Brienne than anyone else; she had been warm and tight, sweet and pure. 

After walking in on Brienne after her bath, he can hardly remember why he’d earlier called her a beast. It's not only her naked form he finds attractive; he is impressed that she managed to survive a year as Lady of Casterly Rock without giving into Tywin’s notions of a proper woman. She is still choosing her own clothes and gulping wine and refusing to conform. Still holding her own against him. 

Jaime slides a hair closer to his wife. He doesn’t have to think of Cersei at all to feel his cock swell and strain against his smallclothes. He doesn’t need to plot how to spend another year away from Brienne. Instead, he thinks he might like to find out what can happen if he stays beside her for a long while.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne spar - physically and verbally. A raven from the King arrives, much to Tywin's delight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for the comments/kudos. I would write no matter what, but knowing a story is being read and enjoyed makes it even more worthwhile and fun.

Brienne was without Jaime for so long that his presence continues to catch her off guard. It happens the first morning she wakes beside him and later that day when she wanders into him outside the kitchens. It happens again in the training yard where Brienne is waiting for the Master at Arms. She sees her husband walking down the hill and startles at the sight of him. 

“Where is Ser Benedict?” she asks. 

“I told him to take the morning off. I said I was going to train you today and he bid me good luck.” 

Brienne glares at him for a beat before saying, “You’re going to need it. I changed a lot while you were gone.” 

_I know_ , he thinks, calling up the image of her breasts and hips and ass. “Show me,” Jaime says, his voice hoarse. 

Brienne unsheathes the sword at her belt. She holds the shining, blunt blade across her palms, displaying it. 

“May I?” 

She nods, letting him take hold of the hilt. “I had Ser Benedict commission it from the blacksmith. It’s much heavier than a wooden sword, wouldn’t you say?” 

“I would,” Jaime responds, smiling at how she took his advice. He looks at the rounded end, touches it with a finger to make sure it’s not covertly sharp. He returns the tourney sword to her hands so that he can find one of his own. 

Armed, Jaime points the blunt tip of his sword at the circle of dirt where he stands. “Show me,” he repeats. 

She joins him there and adopts a defensive stance. “You’re not too ravaged? From the war?” 

“The war ended months ago.” 

“From imprisonment then.” 

“Stop stalling,” Jaime says, and when she suddenly lunges at him, he trips on his own feet, nearly crashing to the ground. He regains his balance and lifts his sword, ready for her next strike. He soon realizes that she no longer gives herself away with a grunt, and he cannot anticipate her every move by listening and watching her face. Brienne did not lie; she has changed a lot. She has more coordination between her upper and lower body. She is more agile. The lumbering beast of a woman he married is somehow graceful in her fighting. 

She chops at the air in front of him with her weapon, pulling Jaime out of his thoughts. She is unrelenting, using the whole of the training yard, making him chase her or dodge her. Brienne is hardly winded and thrills at the way he has to request a reprieve to catch his breath and wipe sweat from his brow. “Do you need a break, Kingslayer?” 

Jaime drops his arms to his sides. “I thought you agreed not to call me that once we married.” 

“I don’t recall having such a conversation.” 

“Well,” he says, “we should have.” He tosses his sword on the ground. “I yield. Let’s have that conversation now.” 

Brienne sighs. “Why shouldn’t I call you Kingslayer?” 

“I repented! I lived in a cell for ten years and then I married you!” 

She lunges at him, and defenseless, Jaime can only use his words. 

“I’m sorry.” He stumbles when she comes at him again. “Brienne! I’m sorry.” 

“What would you have me call you? Lord? My dear lord husband? Ser Lord Husb-” 

“Jaime!” he shouts, loud enough to make her flinch. He lets out a rasp of breath, his shoulders sinking. “My name is Jaime,” he says softly. 

“Fine,” Brienne responds. “J-jaime. Jaime.” 

He nods his approval. He bends to pick up the sword. “Shall we go again?” 

A distant clap of thunder delays her response. “Not now.” She tilts her head back to see the clouds have begun to gather closer to the sun, dimming the day’s light. “A storm is coming.” 

“What’s a little rain to Brienne of _Tarth_?” he asks. 

“Not now, _Jaime_ ,” she snaps, making it clear she can imbue his given name with as much spite as his most dreaded moniker. She sheaths her sword and starts back toward the castle. 

He put his borrowed sword back in its place and jogs to catch up to Brienne at the base of the hill, climbing alongside her. The rumbles of thunder occupy the silence between them. They are both stopped in their tracks when a bolt of lightning sizzles in the sky and is punctuated by the first drops of rain. 

The shower becomes a downpour before they reach shelter. Jaime is surprised to find himself following Brienne, but he supposes a year without him gave her ample time to learn the hidden tunnels and stairways. He lags behind, and when they finally climb a staircase and crawl through a narrow space that conveniently deposits them in their solar, Jaime rakes his fingers through his damp hair and says, “I never thought a woman born into the Stormlands could despise the rain quite so much.” 

“It’s not the rain I dislike. It’s the rain _here_.” Jaime looks offended and she explains, “The rain on Tarth is like... a lullaby. Here, it beats down on you. Everything here is rough. The rock. The water. The-” 

He looks at her expectantly, almost daring Brienne to finish her thought. Jaime is distracted when his eyes register the way her wet tunic clings to her chest. He swallows hard, his mouth suddenly bone-dry. 

* 

Unbeknownst to Jaime, Brienne conspired with a chambermaid to drape a cloth from the floor to the ceiling, cordoning off a corner of the bedroom for herself. He stands on one side of it, able to see his wife’s shadow moving as she peels away her wet clothes. He had begun to wonder if his curiosity and nagging want of her was only a reaction to the amount of time spent isolated with other men. Perhaps, he thought, whatever attraction he felt his first night back – whatever beauty he had seen in Brienne – was a hallucination brought on by loneliness. It frustrates and satisfies him that her silhouette is no less enticing than her nude body when it was an arm’s length away. 

Jaime removes his shirt and stops to add another log to the fire. His sense of longing reminds him of the dying men in the camps, calling out a woman’s name in desperation. He thinks about the vulgar stories the soldiers told that would make the women back home blush. He heard men moaning and grunting when alone in their tents or behind trees, using a hand as they recalled their wives’ tits and cunts and replayed their most memorable encounters. Jaime had mostly thought of Cersei, and it is only now, watching his wife undress through the flimsy fabric wall, that he feels guilty for having not thought of Brienne at all. 

There wasn’t much to think of at the time, he supposes. In their brief stay under the same roof, what could have been nights of marital bliss were usually thwarted by his foul mouth or her stubborn mind. 

_Each night of their new marriage, Brienne was asleep in bed – or pretending to be – by the time Jaime disrobed and joined her under the covers. He was relieved but also disappointed by her quiet refusal to fuck him. Afterall, she was a woman between her legs and he was a virile young man._

_Jaime pointedly retired to their chambers while he knew his wife was still visiting with their guests from Ashemark. He stripped down to his smallclothes, waiting, and caught the fear in Brienne’s eyes when she found him that way. “There is something for you on the pillow,” he said, and she found that Jaime had wrapped a fig and honey cake in a cloth. “You thought the Marbrand boy ate them all, didn’t you?”_

_She was pleased by the gesture and did not shove him away when he began to help untie the laces of her shift. Brienne did, however, balk at the idea of removing every last layer of clothing above her waist._

_Jaime let go of the sleeveless scrap of linen she seemingly never removed. “Nothing to be shy of,” he said, and added with a snort of laughter, “Nothing there for me to see.”_

_Rather than finish undressing and climb into bed with him, Brienne put her clothes back on and left him alone in the room._

It was a while after that before Jaime tried again. 

_Tyrion realized they drank the last of the ale and called for wine. He paused before pouring some into Jaime’s chalice. “Shouldn’t you be with your wife?”_

_Jaime nearly laughed at the suggestion. “My wife doesn’t want me with her.”_

_The youngest Lannister clasped a hand to his chest in an exaggerated display of shock. “I didn’t think there was a woman in the seven kingdoms who didn’t want to be with the Golden Lion.”_

_“She doesn’t see me that way. She only sees the Kingslayer.” Jaime stood and his chair wobbled in his wake. He spilled wine from his cup as he moved on unsteady legs to the table, surveying the remnants of his and Tyrion’s feast._

_“Maybe Brienne doesn’t like men.”_

_Jaime shook his head. “It’s not that,” he said around a mouthful of cold mutton. He crossed the room again and slouched in his seat. Prior to their wedding night, he’d only ever been with Cersei. He wondered if some part of him was failing so miserably with Brienne out of guilt, or perhaps even fear of the unknown._

_“I don’t know, brother,” Tyrion said. “But you’ll never figure it out sitting here with me.”_

_Jaime heaved a sigh. He got to his feet and bid his brother goodnight. He held a hand to the wall for support as he made his way to their bedchamber. He swayed in the doorway, finding Brienne was awake and reading by candlelight. She barely acknowledged him until he flung his jerkin on the foot of the bed and pounced on the mattress._

_“What in the seven hells are you doing?” she asked when Jaime draped an arm across her lap and nuzzled his head against her ribcage._

_He tilted his head back to look up at her. “Touching my wife,” he replied._

_Brienne’s nose wrinkled in disgust at the rank smell of his breath. “You’re drunk.”_

_He kneaded her hip, gathering the material of her tunic in his hand until he was touching bare skin. Jaime sat up and let his head fall against her chest. “Only a little,” he said, the words muffled as he spoke into the space between her breasts. He heard Brienne’s sharp intake of breath when his mouth found her nipple beneath the rough fabric of her shirt, closing around the hard peak._

_She grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back._

_Jaime gazed at her, his eyes flaring with lust. The sensation of her pulling his hair and the way she held him there, restricting him, made his blood sing. He moaned and lunged at her mouth, her stiff lips becoming pliable beneath his. Yet she still shoved at his chest and when he leaned back, he said, “I want you.”_

_It must have stirred something in her, because the wench scooted on the bed until she was lying down with her head on the pillow. He watched her body moving beneath the covers, her hands coaxing her breeches down. Jaime untied the laces of his own and lifted the blanket enough to slide beneath it and climb atop his wife. He shoved his breeches and smallclothes far enough down his hips to release himself from their confines. He rolled his hips, grinding against her, but remained flaccid. Jaime cleared his throat and reached a hand between their bodies, stroking himself._

_Brienne remained still beneath him, her head tilted back and eyes on the ceiling. His hand bumped her thigh with every pump of his fist. She listened to him straining with the effort of trying to get hard for her. “Oh, fuck off,” Brienne hissed, sitting up, rolling him off her body._

All of the ale he’d drank with Tyrion that night impeded his arousal. She had thought his declaration of lust was to mock her. The way he remembers the handful of other times she opened her legs to him, it felt like he was forcing himself on her. After kissing and groping Jaime would settle for spilling into his hand. 

His thoughts are interrupted when Brienne lifts a corner of her makeshift wall and steps into full view. Her hair is combed back and she looks clean and refreshed in a dry tunic and breeches. She blinks rapidly, uncertain of where to focus her gaze while Jaime stands half-naked by the fire. 

“You should hurry and dress,” Brienne tells him. “I believe our supper is getting cold.” 

* 

The fish stew is unappealing. Jaime drags his spoon around the edge of the bowl. He scoops up a clump of white fish and dumps it back into the watery broth with a splash. He catches Tywin and Brienne glaring at him. “What a lovely meal,” he declares, tearing a piece of bread from a loaf and using it to sop up the stew. 

Tywin visibly restrains himself from admonishing or throttling his son; he sucks a sharp breath into his nose and braces his hands on the table. “I’m pleased to dine with you tonight,” he says after a moment of quiet passes. He looks at Jaime. “There is much to discuss now that you’re back where you belong and will be staying put.” 

“I’m sure there is,” Jaime responds, reaching for the bottle of honey wine and pouring a hefty amount into his goblet. “Townsfolk to appease. Gold to mine. Wharves to repair.” 

Tywin does not disagree with his son’s assessment of the work to be done by the Lord of Casterly Rock. But the man sets his spoon beside his bowl and says, “I was thinking more along the lines of babes to be made.” 

Jaime chokes on his wine, coughing into the crook of his elbow. Brienne pauses with her head lowered toward her bowl, her mouth open and on the verge of taking in a large spoonful of stew. 

“Respectfully, father, I don’t think that is an appropriate conversation to be having-” 

“I disagree,” Tywin interrupts his son. “Producing heirs is no less a duty of the Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock than appeasing townsfolk or seeing to the repair of wharves. I thought both of you understood that when you took vows in the sept, but sometimes I worry I’m mistaken.” 

Jaime casts a quick glance at his wife, not surprised to see the blush that has bloomed in her cheeks. He observes her discomfort – head bent, shoulders drawn up toward her ears – and nearly kicks his father under the table. “You’ve made my lady uncomfortable. What do you expect us to say?” he asks. 

“I expect you to acknowledge you are husband and wife. I expect you to take having a family seriously. I expect the both of you to stay together and... No more trips back to Tarth and no more unnecessary work on the battlefield unless it is together.” Tywin pushes his food away as though the insolence of his son and Brienne has ruined his appetite. 

* 

Jaime finds Brienne by accident. He walks and climbs to the furthest battlement overlooking the Sunset Sea to be alone with what remains of the honey wine from supper. She startles at the sound of him and turns, her hand going to her hip even though she’s not wearing her belt and sword. “I’m not looking for a fight,” he says, and she drops her arms to her sides. 

The storm is passed, but a damp chill spikes the air in its wake. Jaime drinks from the bottle and lets the wine warm him from the inside out. He holds it toward Brienne but she shakes her head. He shrugs and takes another long pull from the vessel. “Don’t let my father’s words bother you,” he advises. “The man is obsessed with lineage and spreading seed.” 

She turns her back to him, looking toward the sea and sky. With nightfall upon them, it will soon be impossible to distinguish one from the other. But a sliver of daylight still blazes red at the horizon and Brienne focuses her gaze there. She thinks about how different the sunsets on Tarth are – soft hues blurring into one another, a gentle gleam on the water. The colors are sharp in the Westerlands, and somehow the Lannister name powerful enough to influence the sun – blue bleeds into shocks of red and gold, and the next day the bold colors return to swallow the dark and glare on the sea. 

“You should tell him a wench from The Stepstones is heavy with your child,” Brienne says. 

“What?” 

She turns to face him again and reaches out, grabbing the bottle of wine from his hands. It is heavy, and she has to hold one hand beneath the round bottom while the other grasps the thick neck. She steals several gulps before handing it back to Jaime. “You must have lain with a camp follower or two. I know the Dornish people fuck all-” 

“You sound jealous, you know,” he interrupts, a grin curling on his lips. 

“I do not.” 

“I didn’t fuck any camp followers and I didn’t fuck a Viper.” 

“Does not matter to me,” she says. “It’s only that... it seems to me a man so obsessed with lineage would not care if the heir was a bastard.” 

Jaime takes a drink and hands the bottle over to her. “You’re wrong there. It would matter a great deal to my father. And to you, I suspect.” 

She rolls her eyes. “I’m only trying to find an out. In case there is not another war you can volunteer to fight in.” 

He is distracted by a drop of wine at the corner of her mouth and imagines catching it with the tip of his tongue. Jaime takes a step closer and asks, “What did you say?” 

“I know you did not have to fight for The Stepstones. I know your father tried to stop you. I know you joined the fight of your own accord. To be away from me. You probably even got yourself taken prisoner to avoid coming home to me.” 

Jaime begins to take a drink but stops to say, “If that is true, why does it bother you, Brienne? You built a wall in our chambers to hide yourself from me.” 

Her eyes wander, unable to look at his face. 

“You hoped the war would make you a widow!” 

Brienne, annoyed, clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I hoped the war would make it so I could go back to Tarth and you could live the life you want without me. That we could free of one another.” 

“Well, it did not. I’m here. You’re here. We can either make the best of it or go on being miserable with the added pleasure of my father listening every night outside our bedchambers.” He pauses to take a breath and asks, “Does that sound like a good life to you?” 

She concedes to his point with a shake of her head. 

Jaime sighs and bends to set the bottle on the damp ground. He reaches out and settles his hands over her shoulders. He feels Brienne tense beneath the weight of his palms. He applies pressure, massaging her knotted muscles as he says, “I think the best thing we can do is try. Try to get along. Try to like one another. After all, I am yours and you are mine.” 

Brienne’s expression barely disguises her disgust, betraying the words she speaks. “Fine. I agree.” 

He nods and rubs his palms down to her elbows. Jaime leans forward, tipping his head as his lips seek hers. 

She leans away and balks, “What are you doing?” 

“Trying,” Jaime whispers. He moves his hands to her hips and keeps a modest distance between their bodies as his lips brush across hers. Not unlike the other times, Brienne’s lips are stiff and she holds her breath and tenses every muscle in her body. He is patient and gentle, coaxing her lips apart, and soon the slide of her tongue against his is soft and warm and welcoming. He pulls her flush against the front of his body and a low moan vibrates in the back of his throat. 

Brienne pushes away from him. She is flustered, a little breathless. “That is enough trying for one night,” she tells him, and bends to pick up the bottle of wine, hoisting it up to her mouth and gulping it down. 

* 

He wakes in the morning, disappointed to look at the other side of the bed and find it empty. But Jaime hears a rustle and sees Brienne emerge from behind her fabric wall, dressed for the day, and take a seat at the table on the other side of the room. 

She looks at him with a shy, somewhat put-upon smile, as if to say _I am trying._

* 

Jaime is pleased that Brienne walks into the hall at his side, and he is pleased his father is there to see it. The three of them exchange pleasantries before filling their plates with bread and fruit. 

A squire walks into the hall and says, “Good morning, my lord. My lady,” but it is Tywin he is there to see. “Ser?” 

Tywin nods and picks up a scroll that had been hiding behind a bowl of apricots and plums. He hands it to the boy and the squire quickly departs with a task to fill. 

“What was that?” Jaime inquires. 

“We received a raven from King Robert,” Tywin says. 

Jaime’s heart skips a beat. _Cersei._

Brienne’s shoulders slump. _Cersei._

“I have sent a reply to The North,” Tywin tells them. 

“The North?” Jaime and Brienne ask in unison. 

Tywin smiles behind the rim of his goblet. He delays his response, taking a long, luxurious drink of mint tea. “The oldest Stark boy is getting married. The two of you will go to Winterfell to represent House Lannister.” 

“Are you crazy?” Jaime asks. “Ned Stark does not want me at his son’s wedding.” 

“This is at the behest of the King,” Tywin emphasizes. 

Jaime grinds his teeth. Another punishment from the King. 

“The trip North is the perfect opportunity for the two of you to... reconnect,” Tywin says, pleased with himself. 

Jaime glances at Brienne. As much as he despises the idea of the honorable Ned Stark and the bleak cold of Winterfell, he can’t disagree with his father about the opportunity to be alone on the road with his wife. The close quarters of their carriage. The cozy rooms of an inn. Under the table, he knocks his knee against Brienne’s and says, “When you put it that way, I couldn’t agree more.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne depart for The North. Travelling together might drive a deeper wedge between them. 
> 
> AKA Brienne has intimacy issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank everyone enough for reading and especially for leaving a comment. I regret not having been able to reply to every single one just yet, but know that I read and appreciate them all!

The castle is buzzing with excited chatter and activity. Soldiers from the garrison are vying for placement in the Lord and Lady’s caravan to Winterfell. Empty trunks occupy space in the solar, waiting to be filled with clothes and gifts and everything needed for a long journey to the North. The seamstress has sewn wool socks and several capes lined with fur. The excitement is palpable, but Brienne’s reservations keep her from joining in the revelry. 

She stumbles upon Tywin in the Great Hall and while her first instinct is to flee, she reconsiders. She clears her throat to draw his attention. “Ser,” Brienne says. “May I have a word?” 

He stands and gestures at the seat across the table from him. “Please.” 

When they are both seated, she folds her hands on her lap to hide the way she fidgets nervously. Brienne attempts to initiate a conversation, and after several false starts she manages to ask, “Will the King and Queen be attending the nuptials at Winterfell?” 

Tywin shakes his head. “No, Cersei is with child.” 

“Oh. I see.” 

He smiles. “Perhaps you will be as well by the time you and Jaime return from the North.” 

Brienne has to bite the inside of her cheek to conceal her reaction – a mixture of fear and disdain and even wonder. Until marriage, she imagined motherhood would always be unknown to her. She accepted it and came to prefer keeping her body to herself. She has always been relieved to know that while death will come for her someday, she can rest assured it will not be in childbirth. 

Unbeknownst to both of them, Jaime is listening from the hallway. He presses his back to the wall, absorbing the casual way his father reveals Cersei is expecting. The news renders him breathless; his lungs expand, scorched and filled with lead. All sound is muted and he cannot feel the floor beneath his feet. His senses slowly return, and he listens to Brienne pepper his father with questions about the trip and about the Starks. 

Jaime thinks he hears relief in his wife’s voice. She seems more relaxed, more enthusiastic about the journey and their destination. He takes several deep breaths, reminding himself that Cersei having children has always been inevitable, and soon Jaime thinks he too feels a sense of relief. 

It is another reason to move on from the past. 

* 

“Where is your wife?” Tywin asks. 

The trunks are packed and loaded in one of the two carriages. Jaime’s squire, Braedon, is ready on his horse. The hand-picked men-at-arms – Lyle and Jarrad – finish readying the other horses. Jaime himself is donning Lannister gold armor, wanting to start the journey as the Lord of Casterly Rock. He needs to depart feeling regal and strong, to better prepare for reuniting with an old foe like Ned Stark. 

"She is on her way,” Jaime answers, though he is unaware of Brienne’s whereabouts. 

A moment later, she emerges into the courtyard wearing the mismatched armor she brought with her from Tarth. Jaime is not surprised by her choice of attire, but he does regret not having something made that is more suitable for her stature as the Lady of Casterly Rock. It also does not support his vision of being cozied into the small carriage; he now imagines their armor clanking for the duration of their travels. 

“Brienne,” he greets her. “You look ready. Shall we?” 

* 

Their first disagreement is in regards to seating arrangements and takes place before they have even departed. Brienne wants to ride alone in one of the carriages and Jaime wins the argument by reminding her it won’t paint a very unified picture for Tywin. They squabble minutes into the trip – he sits too close and she gulps too loudly from the waterskin. Later, he is hungry and Brienne thinks it too soon to stop for a meal. She is the victor when they ride until almost dark before finding a tavern. 

Jaime speaks to the owner before joining his wife at a table. “They can give us two rooms,” he tells her. 

“Good. One for me and one for the rest of you,” Brienne says flatly. 

He ignores her remark and reaches for one of two horns of ale. "I asked them to bring kidney pies.” 

“I hate kidney pies.” 

Jaime shakes his head. “Now you’re lying for the sole purpose of disagreeing with me! What happened to trying?” 

“Your father is not here to see or hear me trying.” 

“That is what you think?” Jaime tilts his head back, laughter pouring from his open mouth. He shakes his head at her naiveté. He leans forward and lowers his voice to a whisper to say, “One or more of our companions is being paid extra to report back to my father. I can assure you of that.” 

Brienne frowns and glances sideways to the men at the next table. She looks from one to the other, trying to determine the spy among them. She heaves a resigned sigh and takes several loud, sloppy gulps of ale. 

* 

Their room at the inn smells musty and Brienne lets loose a litany of sneezes upon their arrival. It happens again when she plops down on the edge of the bed and a cloud of dust billows around her. The sound she makes is high-pitched and daintier than Jaime would have predicted, drawing a laugh from him each time. 

“Stop it,” she scolds him, sniffling. 

He watches her easily remove the leather belt at her waist then proceed to the pieces on her legs. He listens to the quiet clank as Brienne arranges them neatly on the floor. She struggles with the Pauldron, and Jaime hops to his feet and says, “Here, let me.” He can see the way Brienne's jaw tenses and knows she is on the verge of forming the word _no_ , but he doesn’t give her time to resist; one tug of the strings at her shoulders and he loosens the metal. He expertly sheds her of each piece, and when she is down to the gambeson underneath, she swats his hand away. 

“I can do the rest,” Brienne says. 

Jaime smirks and turns his attention to the fire burning in the hearth. He adds another log and rears back as the flames expand and crackle. When he turns around, Brienne has undressed as much as she is comfortable with. He is more skilled at removing armor, but purposely struggles with the pieces covering his legs. He is surprised but pleased when she rises from her seat with an annoyed groan and drops to her knees in front of him. 

“I’ll get it,” Brienne tells him. 

He looks down and watches her long fingers at work. She rises a bit and reaches around him to unfasten the Faulds at his hips. Jaime stares at the top of her head, mere inches from his crotch. He sighs contently but the noise draws Brienne’s attention to their positioning. She lets go of him with force. “Do it yourself,” she snaps, standing to her full height. 

She does not give Jaime the satisfaction of looking at him while he finishes undressing down to his breeches. She folds the blanket to the middle of the bed and chooses her side. She reclines on her back and pulls the blanket up to her chest. Brienne becomes aware of how narrow the bed is when he climbs in beside her. They are shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. She rolls onto her side and finds that no matter what positions she is in, some part of her is touching Jaime. 

Brienne twists her neck to look at him. His eyes are closed and she hears the soft snores of sleep. She scoots as close to the edge of the bed as she can without falling over onto the floor. 

* 

“Are they always like this?” Lyle asks, watching from a distance as the Lannisters bicker. 

Braedon considers how to answer until Jaime and Brienne approach. He seals his lips together and busies himself with his horse. 

“I think we should find another inn,” Jaime says, having grown tired of sleeping on the ground for several nights in a row. He curses under his breath when Brienne ignores him, spreading a bedroll on the dirt. 

The two of them have disagreed on many things in a short amount of time – how best to kill and cook a rabbit, when the horses have tired enough for a rest, and how many nights sleeping on the ground is too many nights. They have been doing a poor job of keeping up appearances and wonder how many ravens have been sent to Tywin reporting the ill will between them. 

“Tomorrow,” Brienne says to Braedon, “I will be riding your horse and you will be sitting in the carriage with Lord Lannister.” 

* 

Jaime opens his eyes to the first sign of dawn – a dark sky painted with low stripes of orange and yellow. He lifts his head and feels a sharp pull in his neck. He clasps a hand against the pain, kneading the sore tendons. He turns to the right with the intention of telling Brienne it’s the last night he will spend sleeping outdoors. But the bedroll beside him is empty, and when he finds only dirt and grass to his left, Jaime scrambles to his feet. 

He counts the sleeping forms on the other side of the trees – one, two, three. He marches to the horses and checks the interior of the carriages. Jaime’s pulse quickens and heat prickles the back of his neck as his eyes search for her and come up empty. 

“Brienne,” he whisper-shouts into the distance. He looks around and considers taking a horse. Imagining her lying wounded somewhere, Jaime grabs a waterskin and clean cloth and takes off on foot. 

His brisk pace becomes a run, his feet pounding the narrow path. Jaime can hear the wild rush of the Tumblestone the further he walks, and soon he spots the river through a wall of trees. He knows of more than one strong, capable knight swept away by its current. He follows the sound of the water rushing over jagged rocks, his mind racing as fast as his heart. 

Jaime skids to a stop when he catches sight of a figure in the distance, walking along the bank. He squints, and even in the dim light of dawn, he can recognize Brienne. He resumes his chase when he loses sight of her, finding her again at the mouth of the river where the water has calmed. He doesn’t call out to her when he understands what she has gone there to do. 

He watches as Brienne bends to remove her boots and stockings. Next, she shrugs out of her tunic and for the first time since walking in on her post-bath, he is gifted the sight of her bare, muscled back. Jaime swallows at the sight of her breeches loosening around her hips, and he shivers when her hands shove them down the long length of her legs. All that remains are her smallclothes. Jaime’s heartbeat spikes at the way Brienne so easily discards them when she believes herself to be alone. 

Shame almost sends Jaime back to camp, but he finds it impossible to tear his eyes off his wife. Her naked body is a column of marble, stark and strong against the backdrop of a heavy blue sky. He can almost feel the cool water around his ankles when she steps into the river. He drops the cloth he’d been carrying and sets the waterskin atop it. Jaime watches her walk deeper into the water and bend, scooping the cool liquid into the palms of her hands to splash her face, her chest. His fingers nervously fumble with the laces of his tunic, and in his haste, Jaime’s arms nearly get trapped above his head in his efforts to wrestle out of the shirt. 

He walks barefoot across the bank, the grass getting soggier the closer he gets to river’s edge. “Mind if I join you?” he calls out. 

Brienne goes still, her shoulder blades drawn close together. Every muscle in her body is clenched in fear before the voice registers as Jaime’s. The fear gives way to anger, enough that she turns around without covering herself. 

She launches into a tirade about invading her privacy, but he can only hear the gentle flow of the water and birdsong and the slight breeze ruffling the tree branches. The sky has gradually lightened and Brienne is shrouded in the gauzy morning mist that floats above the water. She looks mystical and angelic even as she berates him. 

Jaime removes his breeches and smallclothes. “I need to bathe as well,” he says in his defense, knowing she cannot disagree after being in such close quarters. 

She averts her eyes as he moves nearer, the water rippling around him. She wades out even further, sinking down until the water rises above her chest. “How did you find me here?” Brienne demands to know. 

He swims toward her, dunking his head back to wet his hair. “I woke and you were gone. I followed the sound of the river. I was worried.” 

“I’m not dumb enough to dive into the rapids.” 

“Of course not,” Jaime says. “But in the moment... you gave me a fright, that’s all.” 

She is poised to go on scolding him, but the genuine concern in his voice helps her anger to recede. Struck silent by his display of kindness, Brienne is lulled by the sound of their bodies gently paddling in the river to stay afloat. She stares at the beads of water sliding along the sharp angles of Jaime’s face. She holds her breath and sinks down, surfacing a moment later with a splash and gasp. “Well, I’m fine,” she states, turning to swim toward the bank. 

He watches the water ripple in her wake and sees her emerge inch by inch out of the Tumblestone. Jaime swims the same path, reaching the bank as Brienne hurries to put her tunic on. He uses his smallclothes to blot at his wet skin then steps into his breeches. She turns toward him and his eyes rake up and down her body. The tunic clings to her wet skin, revealing the outline of her breasts and a shadow of hair between her legs. It is somehow more erotic than her bare skin and Jaime’s cock twitches in reaction. He folds his hands together, hiding the growing evidence of his arousal. 

“We should go back to camp,” Brienne says. 

He shakes his head. 

Her eyes briefly dart down to where Jaime fails to fully conceal the tenting of his breeches. “The others will be waking. They’ll worry,” she tells him. 

He shakes his head again and closes the short distance between them. He lifts one hand and his knuckles graze her cheek. He drags the pad of his thumb along Brienne’s bottom lip and grasps her chin. 

She curls her fingers around his wrist and pushes him away. 

“I’d like to kiss you again,” Jaime says, his voice raspy. 

“No. That,” she says, her eyes flicking down to his crotch, “is not about me.” 

He follows as Brienne moves away from him, bending to collect her other clothes. He catches up to her at the tree she tries to hide behind. “Whom else would it be for?” Jaime asks. He holds his arms out, gesturing around them as he rattles off, “The rocks? The weeds?” 

“It’s not me. It’s... any cunt.” 

Jaime scoffs at her suggestion, at the dismissal of her own appeal as a desirable woman. 

“Don’t pretend. You’ve only ever mocked my-” 

He begins to deny her claim, but swallows his defense, knowing it’s true. “At first, yes. I found you homely and...” He decides it is cruel to elaborate and says, “I was never disgusted by you, Brienne. I’m not in this... condition because I want to bed _any_ woman.” The tip of his tongue scrapes along his bottom lip as he reaches for her hands. “I find you rather... enchanting. I think we should make the best of this life we find ourselves in.” Jaime leans forward, brushing a soft kiss against the corner of her mouth and meeting her gaze, seeking her approval. 

Brienne responds by dropping the garments she is holding and tilting her head. She opens her mouth against his. She lets her body rest against the rough bark of the tree behind her, pulling him against her front. 

Jaime kisses her hungrily as his hands roam her body, her wet tunic like a second skin pulled taut around her slight curves. He is afraid to break the kiss, the spell, but his mouth his hungry for more of her. He takes the risk, moving to kiss her neck down to her chest. He opens his mouth around one breast, his tongue lashing at her nipple, and the sensation of his hot breath through the wet cloth sends a shiver along Brienne’s spine. 

He peels the hem of the tunic away from her thigh and up to her hip. Jaime strokes between her legs, giving her ample attention until his cock strains too painfully against the confines of his breeches. He lifts one of her legs, hooking it around his hip. The moment he frees himself, Brienne lets out a grunt of refusal and slips out from between him and the tree. 

She collects her clothes. Brienne hears him pleading for her, but she flees. When she stops and turns around, she sees Jaime facing the tree, bracing one palm against the trunk. She can’t see his other hand, but from the way he thrusts his hips, she knows what he is doing. 

* 

Jaime does not balk when Brienne announces she will be riding the squire’s horse for the next leg of their journey. He is grateful for the separation, mildly embarrassed by the way he rutted into his hand and terribly vexed by Brienne’s reaction to their intimacy. He knows their long separation did not help. He doesn’t want to be a brute, but she is no longer a maid and _is_ his wife and he wonders how many times they will come to an understanding only to have her flee his embrace. 

He ponders their situation as the carriage bounces along uneven roads. He suspects Brienne gave the horses a directive to make several sharp turns so that his head knocked violently against the wall more than once. 

* 

“I could never live in the Riverlands,” Jaime remarks to no one in particular as they hitch the horses and secure the carriages outside a tavern in Fairmarket. He sniffs the air and wrinkles his nose. “Fish. The stench of fish. Everywhere.” 

Brienne takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, punctuated by a satisfied sigh. “I rather like it here.” 

“They have good wine, my lord,” Lyle says. 

Jaime glares at him. “Then why don’t you go inside and have some?” 

“Yes, Ser,” Lyle responds, nodding before he walks briskly into the tavern. 

Brienne wanders away to see if she can get a look at the Blue Fork, thinking its pristine color will make her feel closer to home. To her real home. She goes off the road onto soggy grass. Standing on a hilltop, she can barely make out the water through a wall of lush trees. Walking back, she sees Jaime conversing with two men. As she nears and the muffled voices become clearer, Brienne realizes it’s less of a conversation and more of a confrontation. 

“I asked you kindly not to call me that,” she hears Jaime say. 

The shorter of the two strangers takes a step forward and spits at Jaime’s feet. “Kingslayer,” he sing-songs. 

“Oathbreaker,” the other man sneers. 

Jaime's hand goes to the scabbard of his sword. “I suggest you leave now.” 

“Or what?” the short man taunts. 

The tallest turns and sees Brienne. He cackles and jabs his friend in the ribs. “Or he’s going to sick this beast of a woman on us!” 

“I’m not surprised you can only get a woman to protect you!” the short man laughs. He looks at Brienne and asks, “Are you the Kingslayer’s whore too?” 

The sound of Jaime unsheathing his sword silences the men’s laughter. They take off, drunkenly knocking into one another. 

Jaime and Brienne lock eyes across the space vacated by the inebriated strangers. She knows he detests the vile moniker assigned to him all those years ago, but until recently she used it herself. “Does that happen often?” she asks. 

“Whenever I leave Lannisport.” 

Brienne does not condemn the men’s actions but she nods toward the tavern and says, “I know you have tired of fish stew. I will see if they have mutton.” 

* 

The temperature drops as they near The North. Brienne shivers and Jaime stops the caravan to dig through the trunks for a fur-lined cape. He carries it with him back to their carriage and reclaims his seat beside her. She leans forward, letting him drape it around her shoulders. 

“Thank you,” Brienne says, drawing it closed below her neck. 

Later, when she sees him fold his arms across his chest, Brienne removes the cape. She says, “Here,” and scoots closer to him. She stretches it across their laps like a blanket, draping her end over one shoulder and across her chest. 

“Thank you,” Jaime says, doing the same, their legs pressed together beneath the warmth of the fur.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime falls ill on the road. The Lannisters arrive at Winterfell. A confession brings Jaime and Brienne closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks for reading and commenting - I appreciate it so much! 
> 
> The Stark children make an appearance in this chapter. In this timeline, they are younger than when we first met them on the show and the age differences don't necessarily match up to show canon either. But it suits my needs for future chapters.

The North is a vast land of endless wilderness and snow-capped mountains – terrain Jaime loathes and Brienne finds beautiful. She has used the word _stunning_ on more than one occasion, and he always responds by saying, “It only ever snows.” 

What Jaime fails to mention is that he _has_ developed an appreciation of the region’s climate over the course of their journey. His wife gladly curls up beside him under furs and no longer minds their bodies touching in the narrow beds of the inns. She doesn’t protest against his arms around her at night. He has even woken more than once with one of Brienne’s long legs hooked around his and her arm clasped snugly around his waist. 

Nevertheless, she will not tolerate an embrace unless it is necessitated by the temperature. She disentangles from him immediately upon waking and goes red in the face if Jaime mentions their cozy sleeping arrangements in daylight hours or the company of others. 

* 

The ground has been too warm for the snow to stick, but a drastic drop in temperature has made the roads rather treacherous. They are several miles from any major town but blindly, and gladly, stumble upon lodging. Jaime is particularly grateful; he keeps the information to himself, but he has been feeling unusually tired and fighting against a rather bothersome headache. 

The innkeeper is an old man with a hunched spine. Jaime inquires after additional firewood and the man points to an axe propped against the wall. 

“Right. Of course,” Jaime says, heaving it over his shoulder. He heads out into the cold, cursing the dreary sky – what little of it he can see through a mass of trees, the naked branches crisscrossing above – another set of prison bars trapping him. 

As he works, Jaime feels the frigid air filling his lungs. He begins to cough, and by the time he has a decent pile of wood at his feet, swallowing feels like tiny knives scraping down his throat. Laboring in the cold has awakened whatever sickness has been working on him. 

He struggles to the room he is sharing with Brienne and drops an armful of chopped wood on the floor. He bars the door and hears his wife rise from her seat by the hearth. 

“This is too wet to burn,” she remarks, a note of irritation in her voice. 

Jaime removes his cape and hangs it from a hook on the wall. The bottommost layer of clothing he wears is drenched with sweat and feels like a vise around his body. 

“Did you find these pieces lying about in the snow?” Brienne asks, growing incredulous. 

He coughs into his hand. 

The harsh, wet sound makes Brienne wince. She draws closer to him and can see the blotches of red staining his cheeks are not from anger or embarrassment or the exertion of chopping wood. “You’re ill,” she states, feeling remorseful for her earlier tone. 

“I’m fine.” No sooner than the words leave his lips, the room spins and Jaime’s knees buckle. 

Brienne catches him in the circle of her arms, his head landing against her chest. She hoists him up straight, her hands locked together tightly at his lower back. “Can you walk?” she asks. He nods weakly and she helps him to the bed. 

Jaime sits and she presses the back of her hand to his forehead. “You’re burning up!” 

“I’m c-cold,” he says, teeth chattering. 

Brienne crouches down at his feet. She unlaces his boots and removes them. The front of her body is pressed against his legs as she makes quick work of the knots holding his heavy doublet closed. She manipulates each of his arms as needed to remove the heavy garment. “Lift,” she says, peeling two layers of dampened tunics up to his chest as she stands. Jaime obeys, weakly bringing his arms above his head as Brienne yanks the tangled cloth, mussing his damp hair. 

“On the bed,” she instructs, and Jaime maneuvers to recline on the mattress. She bends and tugs on his breeches, dragging them down his hips, to his knees, and finally flings them aside until he’s dressed in only wool socks and smallclothes. He briefly thinks how nice it would be to enjoy the act of being undressed by his wife, but the pounding in his head drowns out any lascivious thoughts. 

She digs through the trunks and settles on tucking him under two layers of furs. “I’ll see if there’s a Maester nearby.” 

Jaime manages to free his arm and grabs her hand. “No,” he says weakly. “Had to chop the wood myself. I can assure you there is no Maester.” 

She sighs. “Perhaps they have tea. And a cold cloth for your head.” 

He tries to ask her not to leave, but his words are garbled as he coughs. 

Brienne returns a short while later juggling a basin of cold water and a large metal chalice, with a cloth folded over her arm. She sets everything near the bed and cups her hand at the back of his head, lifting him from the pillow. “Drink this,” she instructs, holding the rim of the vessel to his lips. 

Jaime takes a sip and the stench of unidentifiable herbs stings his eyes. He swallows but seals his lips, refusing more. 

She sits on the edge of the bed and reaches down to dip the cloth in the water. Brienne wrings it out and dabs it against his inflamed cheeks. She folds it across his forehead and sees Jaime’s lips move, forming a rasp of a _thank you_ as his eyes flutter closed. 

* 

Brienne never leaves his bedside. She tasks the men-at-arms with chopping wood. She sends the squire to refill the basin and bring warm bowls of broth. She uses the time Jaime is asleep to polish their armor and swords, and the little he is awake, she scolds him into sipping the broth. 

She is stirred from her own sleep by a disturbing sound. Brienne sits up in the chair, thinking it’s an animal outside. She notices the flames are dying in the hearth and gets up to toss another log into the fire. She hears the sound again and realizes it is coming from Jaime. 

Panicked, she darts across the room to sit beside him. His skin singes the back of her hand. Jaime whimpers and shouts a series of incomprehensible words. Brienne bends and grips him by the arms, giving him a shake. “Jaime. Jaime!” 

His eyes open, but barely, before drifting shut again. 

“You are dreaming,” she tells him softly. She can see that he is trembling and wonders if it is from the fever or whatever fright is playing out behind his closed lids. 

Brienne stands but Jaime grabs her hand and pulls her back down. “The fire,” he snarls, eyes squeezed shut. 

She glances toward the hearth. “It’s fine,” she tells him. “But I can add another lo-.” 

“Burn them all!” Jaime cries. 

She narrows her eyes, confused, and squeezes his hand. “Jaime, wake up.” 

He releases a plaintive cry of, “No! Stop!” 

Brienne can feel his desperation. She settles her hand against his bare chest and gives him a shake. “Jaime! Wake up!” 

His eyes open wide and he seizes her arm with both hands. His breath is ragged and he tries to lift his head only to collapse against the pillow. His grip on her loosens and his arms fall to his sides. 

Brienne reaches down and dips the cloth in the now lukewarm water. She holds it to each cheek, his forehead, and then wraps it around the back of his neck. “I’m going to get fresh water,” she says, but Jaime grabs a fistful of her tunic, holding her there. “What?” 

“Don’t... go.” 

She nods and remains seated beside him until he drifts off to sleep again. She stands to go back to the chair, but Brienne hesitates and circles around to the other side of the bed. She settles herself there, under the blankets, and falls asleep beside him. 

* 

Jaime’s eyes flutter open, orienting to the pale gray light of the room. He has no concept of time and wonders if it’s dusk or dawn. How many days has he delayed their trip? Only one or by a fortnight? 

“Good morning,” Brienne says from across the room, answering one of his questions. 

He digs his fists into the mattress and lifts himself to lean against the wall. The furs pool at his waist. His skin gleams with beads of sweat. 

“Your fever is breaking,” she observes with relief. She pours water from a pitcher into a cup, spilling some in her haste. 

Jaime tosses the furs aside and swings his legs over the side of the bed, letting his feet feel the solidity of the floor for the first time in what feels like an eternity. 

Brienne drags a chair to the bed and sits down, facing him. “You should drink this,” she tells him, handing Jaime the cup of water. “You need to eat something, too.” She disappears from his view, returning with a chunk of bread and a bowl of broth. 

Jaime holds the bowl on his lap. He dunks the bread in the liquid and eats slowly. He thinks the nourishing food is helping, but that the nearness of Brienne – and her care for him – is the best cure for what ails him. 

* 

The first day back on The Kingsroad is trying. The horses have to trudge through heavy snow for the first several miles. One of the carriage wheels breaks and everyone braves the elements to fix it quickly. Brienne frets over Jaime’s exposure to the cold and he takes great pleasure in teasing her for caring so deeply about his well-being. 

“I’m not concerned about _you_ ,” she clarifies. “I’m concerned about losing more time to your fragile system.” 

He grins behind her back, more aware of the amount of time she spent looking after him than Brienne realizes. 

* 

Jaime knows they are close to Winterfell when the horses pull the carriage along a bridge that crosses over White Knife. He peeks out to look at the river, ice caps floating on its nearly white surface. Soon, as they ride through Winter Town, he takes several deep breaths to combat his nerves. He is grateful Brienne is asleep and can’t remark on the tremor of his hands. 

The caravan rolls along the road toward the castle’s East Gate, drawing the attention of townsfolk. Jaime turns to Brienne and gives her a gentle shake, saying, “We made it to Winterfell, my lady.” 

She murmurs and hides a yawn behind her hand. By the time she sits upright and looks out the window, they are passing through the gate toward the courtyard. “Jaime!” she snaps, swatting his armor. “You waited too long to wake me.” She brushes her fingers through her flattened hair, rubs a finger across her teeth, and straightens her breastplate. 

“You look fine,” he assures her. 

They both see a commotion in the courtyard – no doubt the servants passing word amongst one another to assemble the Stark family. The carriage comes to a stop and Braedon opens the door. Jaime and Brienne look to one another. He smiles, sighs, and slides across the seat to exit. He surveys the scene and catches sight of Ned Stark corralling his brood. Jaime waits until they are all lined up to step aside and hold his hand out for Brienne. 

She accepts his outstretched hand and clambers out of the narrow door. To her surprise, she does not let go of him as they both turn and face their hosts. 

Ned dutifully approaches them, his focus on Brienne over Jaime. He greets her with a warm smile and says, “Lady Brienne, welcome to The North. Welcome to Winterfell. My family is honored to have you.” His eyes dart to Jaime. “Both.” 

“Thank you, Lord Stark,” Brienne says. 

“Please, you must call me Ned.” 

She smiles. “Then, please, call me only Brienne. I’m-” Jaime squeezes her hand, and she refrains from adding _no lady_. 

“I’d like to introduce you to my family,” Ned says. He goes to his wife first, taking her hand and ushering her forward. The woman bristles at the sight of Jaime but looks fondly on Brienne as they are introduced. “Brienne,” Ned says, “this is my wife, Catelyn.” 

“Lady Catelyn,” Brienne repeats, suddenly uncertain if she should bow or curtsy, hug, or shake the woman’s hand. She is grateful when Catelyn reaches out to grasp her hand warmly. 

Ned walks them a short distance to where his children are lined up by age, it would seem. First is Robb, the groom-to-be. He offers Brienne a sturdy handshake, and to Jaime, he offers a steely gaze identical to that of his parents. Next is Jon Snow, a shy looking boy of perhaps ten and two. He introduces himself to Brienne and Jaime with equal kindness, and Jaime eagerly accepts the boy’s sturdy handshake. 

“Theon Greyjoy is our ward,” Ned explains, pointing them to the only light-haired youth in the bunch. 

The next two Stark children are girls, and Ned lovingly draws his arm around a redhead, introducing her as Sansa. “I am five years old and would like to sew you a dress,” she announces to Brienne. 

Lady Catelyn draws in a nervous breath and interrupts to say, “Sansa has been working very hard on her sewing skills.” She looks to her daughter and adds, “Perhaps you’ll have time to stitch Lady Brienne’s sigil onto a scarf.” 

Clearing his throat, Ned changes course. “And this is our youngest daughter.” He has to yank a small girl forward from the group. “This is Arya,” he names the child with dirt smeared on her cheek. 

Catelyn bends down to pick up a boy of no more than two. She holds him against her hip. 

“And who do we have here?” Jaime asks. 

“This is Bran,” she responds. 

Jaime reaches out to muss the boy’s hair and the child lets out a squeak of laughter. 

Brienne, overwhelmed by the introductions, seeks Jaime’s hand again – now her touchstone in the presence of new faces and new fears. Her fingers entwined with his, she smiles at the Starks and says, “We are pleased to celebrate your son’s wedding with all of you.” 

* 

The guest quarters are spacious but no less dank than what Brienne has seen of the castle. She will not admit it to Jaime, but being surrounded by endless gray stone and weathered wood _is_ rather dour. 

Sensing their discomfort, Catelyn offers advice to combat the cold. “Every time you leave the room, add another log to the fire. It will help keep you warm. You may have a bath drawn here,” she tells them, then explains that Winterfell was built over natural hot springs. “The baths below the keep are open for your use.” She advances to the door, stopping to invite them to dine in the Great Hall at sunset. 

“Thank you, Lady Catelyn,” Brienne responds. 

The door seals shut and Jaime repeats, “Sunset? There is no sun to set!” 

Brienne points a finger at him and warns, “Behave, Jaime Lannister.” 

* 

Dinners at Casterly Rock are reserved affairs. The table is typically set for no more than three, and when Brienne inevitably excuses herself, there is no fanfare over her departure. She quickly learns that dinners at Winterfell are an altogether different event. 

The tables in the Great Hall are filled from end to end with people of varying ages. There is a constant, overlapping buzz of voices and laughter and music. Brienne's goblet is never empty of wine. She tastes pumpkin soup for the first time and rather likes it. She is relieved that although very few people speak to Jaime or look upon him with any kindness, everyone treats her as an immediate friend. She suspects some of it is exaggerated to enrage The Kingslayer, but Brienne is not cross about that. Their dislike of her husband allows her to feel welcome but still mostly left to herself. 

She observes the way Catelyn divides her time between her children, her guests, and Ned. The woman is clearly a doting mother and loving wife, appearing to be here and there at the same – there is no shortage of her love and attention, and not a soul in the hall is not vying for one or the other at any given time. The Lord and Lady of Winterfell stop now and then to embrace or share a modest kiss, and Brienne even spots them dancing together. She supposes they have a romantic marriage and glances at Jaime, a faint blush crawling across her cheeks. 

“Lady Brienne.” 

She turns to see Catelyn and rises from her seat. 

“Lady Brienne,” Catelyn says, “I’d like you to meet my son Robb’s bride.” She puts her hand against a tall, slender young woman’s back. “This is Jeyne.” 

Brienne offers a small smile and nod of her head. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” 

Catelyn explains that Brienne is from Tarth and the Lady of Casterly Rock. There is a knowing look exchanged between Catelyn and Jeyne – _the Kingslayer_ – that makes Brienne realize her husband has disappeared from his seat. 

* 

Brienne wanders the grounds, following the muffled sound of two masculine voices until they become identifiable as Jaime and Ned. The two men are standing near the stables and she conceals herself behind a tree. 

She has come upon them mid-conversation, but Brienne surmises they are discussing Jaime’s punishment – or lack of, as Ned sees it – for killing Aerys. “I always believed he only jailed you out of pressure from the council and to earn the respect of the smallfolk,” Ned says. 

Jaime remarks on the King’s sense of justice and compassion. 

Ned takes several steps toward Jaime. His voice is low, but Brienne hears every word he speaks. “I was enraged when I learned The Kingslayer was being sent to my home for my son’s wedding. The only reason for my hospitality is the presence of your honorable wife and a desire to keep peace among The Seven Kingdoms. I expect you to take your leave immediately following the ceremony.” 

Brienne hears the trill of female laughter behind her and doesn’t want to be caught eavesdropping. She turns and crosses paths with two young ladies, nodding politely as they pass her by. 

* 

He doesn’t have a black eye, but Jaime feels punched and bruised nonetheless. He has lost count of the number of times he’s heard _Kingslayer_ spit at him. Ned Stark addresses him as though no time has passed since finding him in the throne room with King Aerys’s dead body, as though Jaime did not serve his time and pay dearly. The eyes of nearly everyone in the Great Hall bore into him with vile hatred and mistrust, even fear. 

When Jaime can’t find Brienne, he recalls what Catelyn said about the hot springs. The idea of soaking in warm water is appealing; he feels beaten and his cough lingers. 

He finds his way to the baths, following the wave of warm air, the sound of water bubbling, and the smell of wet stone. Jaime stops short as he realizes someone is already there. He squints and sees through the veil of steam that it is his wife. “There you are,” he says, announcing himself. 

Brienne sinks lower in the water. 

Jaime removes his tunic, then his shoes. He tugs at the laces of his breeches and catches the way Brienne averts her gaze as they slide down his legs and pool around his ankles. He kicks them away and his bare feet pad along the rough, wet stone. He bypasses the first bath and dips a foot in the second where she soaks. 

“There is another bath!” Brienne protests, shoving away from the wall and settling on the opposite side. 

“This one suits me fine,” Jaime tells her. He hops down from the ledge and submerges his body in the soothing, hot water. The sigh that escapes his lips is almost indecent. 

Brienne draws her knees to her chest. 

“You like Winterfell, don’t you?” Jaime asks. 

She offers a noncommittal shrug. 

“You think good ‘ole Ned Stark is an honorable man?” 

Brienne pauses before answering with a slight nod of her head. 

“You believe Lady Catelyn is-” 

“Why are you asking me all these questions?” Brienne interrupts. 

He slides further into the water, far enough that he can dunk his head and resurface, brushing the wet strands away from his eyes. “Making conversation.” He wipes the heel of his hand across his eyes. “Would you like to ask me anything?” Jaime asks the question in jest, but he can tell by the set of her eyes that Brienne is giving it careful consideration. 

She is quiet for a long while, her teeth nibbling on her lower lip as she thinks. “What was your dream about? When you were sick at the inn?” 

Jaime laughs at her choice of inquiry. “My dream?” he wonders, oblivious to what she speaks of. 

“Yes. You were talking in your sleep. You said ‘Burn them all’ and were quite... upset.” 

His breath snags in his throat. “I... I did?” 

She nods. “Do you know what that means? ‘Burn them all.’” 

“Stop saying it,” Jaime whispers. The words have haunted him through ten years in prison and every night after. 

Brienne hears the pain in his voice and drops her knees, stretching her legs in front of her. “I’m sorry I brought it up.” 

He looks across the bath at her pale face, her hair slicked back. Her blue eyes appear brighter in the dank, cavernous springs. Jaime is reminded of the way she tended to him at the inn. 

“I’ve been wondering is all,” Brienne explains. “You were very-” 

“The Mad King said it. To me. Right before I killed him.” 

Brienne recoils. She holds her breath. Her first instinct is fear and she calculates how best to exit the bath. 

“Right there,” Jaime says, narrowing his eyes, “that look on your face. It’s the way everyone I encounter has been looking at me since the day Aerys died. It’s the way everyone in Winterfell has been looking at me since we arrived. The Kingslayer.” 

Her fear subsides as she listens to his shaky voice and comes to see there is nothing sinister in Jaime’s eyes or the tone of his voice. In truth, he looks suddenly younger. Fragile. Frightened. She remains still, offering him her rapt attention. 

“Aerys had an obsession with wildfire. Did you know that?” 

Brienne shakes her head. 

“He enjoyed the sound of it burning a person to death. He burned people for sport. His enemies. Anyone who dared to disagree with him. Smallfolk.” Jaime winces, his voice cracking as he says, “Children. He liked to watch a person’s skin melt off their bones. He had his pyromancer place caches of wildfire everywhere. Under taverns. The sept. Houses.” He stops and searches Brienne’s face for disbelief or disdain. He cannot read her, but she is still listening, which is more than he can say for anyone else. 

Jaime takes a deep breath and describes the day Robert Baratheon arrived in the city to declare his victory. He tells Brienne how the king refused to believe Tywin Lannister was against him and refused to surrender. “As you know, my father brought the Lannister army into King’s Landing,” Jaime goes on. “After that, Aerys wanted my father’s head. And he wanted me to deliver it to him.” 

Brienne’s chin quivers as she listens to Jaime describe King Aerys’ plans. 

“Burn them all is what he said. Over and over. That is why I killed the pyromancer first. Instead of killing my father and watching innocent men, women, and children burn to death. The king tried to run and I stabbed him in the back. He said ‘Burn them all’ over and over and over until I slit his throat.” 

“Jaime,” she says softly. “If this is the truth, why have you never told anyone? Why didn’t you tell Lord Stark when he found you?” 

He scoffs at the suggestion. With tears stinging his eyes, Jaime responds, “I was guilty the moment _Lord_ Stark walked in the room. His honor blinded him to any other possibility.” He strangles a cry in his throat and asks, “Do you think I made the wrong decision? Were the lives of my father and innocents worth breaking my oath? Do you still look at me and see the Kingslayer? Will you ever look at me and see-” 

Brienne interrupts his tearful rant by rising from the water with a splash, standing before him exposed. 

Jaime resigns himself to the fact that she is going to flee. He dips his chin to his chest and closes his eyes. He hears movement in the water and gasps when she drops to her knees before him. Her fingers cup his chin. Brienne urges him to lift his head and meet her gaze. He does, and his face crumples. 

“Jaime,” she breathes his name. 

He tips forward, resting his forehead against hers. He looks down at the beads of water glistening on her breasts. “Do you believe me?” he whispers. 

Brienne frames his face with her hands. She answers with a soft but firm, “Yes,” her breath warm on Jaime’s skin. 

He exhales a pent-up breath and brings his arms up out of the water to fold them around her. She sinks into the embrace, chest to chest, her head landing on his shoulder. Jaime tightens his hold on her and doesn’t dare speak or move or demand more of her. He won’t risk losing the warm, wet press of her body and the solace of her arms around him. 

* 

The room is cold and dark when they return. Jaime kneels at the hearth to start a fire. He listens to the sounds of Brienne changing her clothes behind him. He worries their closeness will not transpire outside the baths, that it will remain there with his confession – never to be spoken of, never to be felt again. He is convinced of it when he rises from the floor and sees that she is already in the bed, under the furs. 

Jaime watches the flames lick the wood, hissing and crackling and soon climbing higher in the hearth. He changes his clothes and digs a clean pair of wool socks out from a trunk. He gets situated on the bed, his back to Brienne, thinking it's what she will want. Soon, he feels his body dip toward the center of the bed as Brienne moves beside him, and Jaime smiles when he realizes she is moving closer to him. 

She loosely drapes her arm around Jaime, inching closer until her knees touch the back of his thighs. Her arm tightens around him and soon it feels like every part of her touches him and he is enveloped in Brienne’s warmth. In her acceptance.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new day in Winterfell sees Brienne defend her husband and another heartfelt confession of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you SO much for all of the lovely, thoughtful comments.

Brienne wakes on her side with her forehead pressed between Jaime’s shoulder blades. Her arm is thrown over his hip. One of her legs is trapped beneath his. Her first instinct is to shudder in disgust and extricate herself without drawing his attention to her, but she recalls looking at him through a shroud of steam and the sound of bubbling water and Jaime asking _Were the lives of my father and innocents worth breaking my oath_? Brienne recalls the feel of his damp skin beneath her hands and the way he folded his arms around her, strong but vulnerable. 

She gradually lifts herself from the bed and peeks over the slope of Jaime’s shoulder, finding his eyes are still closed. She studies the dark, coarse hairs that prickle his jawline. The neckline of his tunic is askew and reveals a patch of the light hair dusting his chest. Brienne’s eyes wander down to his smallclothes and the shape of his flaccid cock through the thin cloth. Her teeth pinch her bottom lip and her pulse quickens. 

There is something different about him. Something new. Something that makes the corners of Brienne’s mouth twitch into a smile even though she feels a pang in her chest that was never there before. Before she knew him to be honorable and to have suffered quietly. Bravely. 

Jaime stirs and she quickly drops back down on the bed, pulling her arm away from him. She closes her eyes. He releases her leg from between his and maneuvers onto his other side to face her, and Brienne feigns sleep. 

He clears his throat but she doesn’t move. He bounces a little on the mattress to jostle her awake. 

Brienne opens her eyes slowly and makes an effort not to appear impacted by his face and his proximity. 

“Hi,” Jaime whispers. 

Her hands want to touch him and her lips want to kiss him, but inexplicably she slips out from under the furs and says, “I wonder what the people of Winterfell eat for breakfast.” 

* 

The people of Winterfell rise early despite the constant gray, sunless sky. They dine on soft boiled eggs, bacon, and hot bread with berry preserves. 

Having had enough food, Jaime wanders the grounds. He stands out against the dreary morning and the drab wardrobe of the northerners; his dark cloak does little to hide the Lannister red of his tunic and the polished, flaxen jerkin he wears. 

Jaime doesn't notice the two men standing above him on the battlements or the way one of them aims to spit on his head. He isn’t aware of the stares and whispers as he normally would be. He is armored against it all by the fresh memory of Brienne’s arms around him in the baths and in slumber. Jaime is weightless after his confession and her compassion. It doesn’t matter that she hurried from the bed after they woke; he shared his secret and she believed him. 

He strolls by the blacksmith and the stables. He wanders to the courtyard and finds a small audience of young men and a few girls gathered around a sparring match between Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy. Jaime folds his arms, observing the boys' sloppy footwork. His attention is momentarily stolen as Brienne approaches, stopping beside him to watch the match. He smiles, hopeful, and is relieved when she mirrors his expression. Arms at their sides, their hands brush, and they share a knowing look as Jon’s sword is knocked from his hands over and over. 

“You need to perfect your grip,” Jaime calls out. 

The two boys freeze in position, their swords lifted between them, and look at Jaime. 

“Your hand should be loose around the pommel,” Jaime continues, walking toward them. “You need to be able to constantly change-” 

“Leave them be,” Robb interrupts, deepening his voice to address Jaime as he pushes his way through the onlookers. “They don’t need advice from The Kingslayer.” 

The words puncture Jaime’s good mood. He searches for the correct response when Brienne’s voice rings out from the slight crowd as she says, “I ask you kindly not to refer to Jaime that way.” 

All eyes dart to Brienne as she closes in on the tense huddle of Robb, Jon, Theon, and her husband. The younger men reel back and Robb’s demeanor softens in her company. 

“He is a knight and Lord of Casterly Rock,” she states, standing tall and holding her head high. “He deserves more respect than you offer him.” 

Jaime feels a pinch in his chest. He gazes at Brienne with bleary eyes, uncertain if his heart swells more with gladness for how she stands up for him or with pride for the way his wife commands such attention and esteem. 

“Lady Brienne, I apologize if I’ve offended you,” Robb tells her. “It’s only that-” 

She interrupts to say, “It is not me you should apologize to.” 

The eldest Stark son bows his head. His face briefly contorts with the anger he cannot extend toward a lady. He takes a deep breath before pointing his gaze at Jaime. “I apologize. You are a guest of my family’s and... you deserve more respect than I gave you,” Robb tells him, repeating Brienne’s words. 

“Your brothers would be lucky to learn from Ser Jaime,” Brienne adds. “There is much you don’t know about-” 

Jaime grabs Brienne’s hand, pushing the pad of his thumb forcefully against her palm – a signal to stop. “I would be honored to help,” he says. 

“Perhaps another day.” Robb looks at Jon and Theon, nodding his head in the direction of the stables. “Our father needs us to ride into town.” 

The younger men look disappointed. They sulk away, following Robb. The rest of the onlookers disperse, leaving Jaime and Brienne standing alone on the dirt. 

“Why don’t you want anyone to know the truth about King Aerys?” Brienne whispers. 

Jaime looks around, gauging the distance of the nearest people. He tugs her further away. “No one will believe me.” 

“I believed you.” 

His breath snags in his throat. He draws closer to her, his eyes and voice softening. “Yes, you did. But there is no one else like you, Brienne. It’s been too long. They’ve made up their minds.” 

She scoffs at his explanation. “Why didn’t you tell Ned the moment he found you in throne room?” 

“He was never going to accept the truth. I knew it would cost me a great deal more to try and convince anyone, especially the noble Eddard Stark. Honesty would at least be valued over the perception I was lying to cover up my bad deeds.” Jaime has to pause at the sound of horse hooves, and two men ride by at a clipped pace. “And now,” he goes on, “anyone who despises me or the Lannister name will still say I’m lying. There is no convincing anyone.” 

Brienne stares at him, her nose wrinkled, not accepting his answer. 

He frames her face with his hands. “I love that you think I could tell everyone about the wildfire and they would herald me a hero.” He sighs. “But that is not the ending of this story.” 

She closes her eyes and parts her lips as he leans forward. She is left disappointed when Jaime only drops a kiss against her forehead before letting go. 

* 

Young ladies crowd together at a table outside the library tower. Brienne spies Sansa in the midst of them, her small fingers surprisingly adept at handling a needle and thread. Two of the ladies helping them catch sight of Brienne watching and turn to one another, whispering and hiding a laugh behind their hands. Everyone was on their best behavior upon their arrival, but since then people have done little to hide their shock at the appearance of Jaime Lannister’s wife. She is accustomed to the whispers about the disparity between her and Jaime’s attractiveness, and while she despises letting others bring her down, Brienne is not immune to the savage glares and laughter. 

“Would you like to join them?” 

Brienne turns at the sound of Catelyn’s voice. “No, thank you, Lady Catelyn. I’m afraid I wouldn’t even know how to thread the needle. I’m quite impressed at Sansa’s skill, though.” 

“Yes, for her age she has an impressive patience to learn. I doubt Arya will ever sit still long enough for sewing.” 

Brienne’s eyes find the younger girl sitting beneath a tree, legs splayed in front of her. She digs her chubby hands into the mud. She stands, wobbles, then seems to search the ground for the biggest stick she can find. “I was more like Arya,” Brienne remarks. “My septa said her fingers are perpetually pruned from having to give me so many baths.” 

Catelyn laughs. “I can see that.” She pauses and then asks, “Walk with me?” 

The two women stroll leisurely along the path toward the kitchens. “I heard you saw my sons earlier this morning,” Catelyn remarks. 

Brienne stops for a tense moment before resuming her steps. “Yes, Lady Catelyn. I am sorry if it seems I was too cross, but I could-” 

“I do not fault you for defending your husband. I would have done the same for mine.” Catelyn sighs and continues, “I may not have very pleasant feelings toward your husband, Lady Brienne, but it is admirable that you have found it in your heart to respect him.” 

It is not lost on Brienne that her walking companion never calls Jaime by name. “I had misgivings about Jaime in the beginning, but he has only ever treated me with kindness.” She stumbles a bit over the fib but goes on to say, “Jaime was bound by many oaths. He was charged with protecting the innocent and guarding the secrets of his king. I am certain there were times when upholding one oath meant breaking another. I can only...” She trails off, afraid she has and will say too much. “Jaime was punished for the king’s death. He is still a knight. He has not broken every oath he took. To me, that is worthy of respect.” 

Catelyn is quiet. She begins to speak but stops. 

If Brienne had to guess, she would say the woman is at once admiring of her outspokenness and offended by it. 

“I can understand your viewpoint, Lady Brienne.” They have come upon the kitchens and Catelyn changes the subject, gesturing toward the building and asking, “Would you like to see what is planned for the feast?” 

Before Brienne can respond or nod her head, Arya hollers and waddles across the snow-dusted grass. The little girl throws her arms around her mother’s legs and giggles. 

“I suppose you want to see as well,” Catelyn says, bending to take the girl into her arms. The two of them share a smile and when Arya plants a sloppy kiss on her mother’s cheek, it’s the happiest Brienne has seen Catelyn all morning. 

* 

An old man pushes a wheelbarrow in front of Jaime as he stands staring at the loose stones of the broken tower. “It was the tallest once,” the man says. “Ruined by a lightning strike long before your time.” 

“Is that so?” Jaime asks. 

The man points a shaky finger at the structure. “You can climb to the top.” 

“Are you sending me to my death?” 

The man laughs and shakes his head. 

“Because,” Jaime goes on, “the top looks like it is going to collapse in on itself.” 

“It’s more stable than you think. Good place to hide.” 

The mention of hiding piques Jaime’s interest. He tentatively steps through the opening at the base and puts one foot on the chipped stone stairs, testing their durability. He climbs and climbs, finding himself at the top and still alive and the tower still standing. 

Jaime goes to the window and looks out at an endless stretch of snowy terrain against the backdrop of a gloomy sky. He glances down at the drop to the ground and, feeling dizzy, quickly rears back. On the other side of the interior, the stone is cracked enough that it has created several small windows to look through. Peering out toward the armory, Jaime squints and sees Brienne walking. She stops now and then and turns her head, looking over her shoulder and down. Soon he can see that a child is following Brienne, and he thinks it must be the Stark’s youngest daughter. He can’t see the detail in their faces, but he has no doubt his wife is acting put-upon by the child’s attention all the while she revels in the little girl’s presence. 

* 

Brienne returns to their guest chambers and adds a log to the fire. Having been reminded the wedding is the next night, she kneels on the floor in front of the largest trunk to find the gift they brought for Robb and Jenye. She lifts folded tunics and breeches and sets them aside. When her fingers feel silk, she draws her hand away as though she touched a flame. She reaches back in and grabs hold of the soft material, pulling the garment out and realizing it is the red and gold dress that had been made for her to wear upon Jaime’s return from the war. 

Standing, Brienne shakes the dress out and drapes it across the bed. She wonders if it was packed by one of her attendants or perhaps by Tywin himself. The dress is not built for winter; save a narrow strap, the shoulders are bare. She can tell by the cut that her collarbone and several inches of skin below it would be exposed. She supposes it is pleasing to the eye – the fabric is a rich Lannister red and the skirt has alternating panels of gold. 

The door creaks open and Brienne quickly gathers the dress up into her arms. Jaime comes upon her looking suffocated by the garment and says, “Is that a _dress_?” 

She glowers at him, throwing it on the bed. “Someone packed it for me. Presumably to wear to the wedding.” 

“Are you going to wear it?” he asks. Jaime can tell by her expression that she thinks he’s appalled at the prospect. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t. I think you should wear whatever you want.” 

The angry set of Brienne’s eyes softens. “Oh. Well...” 

Whatever she intends to say is interrupted by a knock on the door. Jaime rolls his eyes at the intrusion but moves to answer it, opening it to Catelyn. 

“Hello,” Catelyn says, making an effort not to appear as uncomfortable in Jaime’s presence as she truly is. “I apologize for the interruption but I have something for Lady Brienne.” 

Jaime steps aside, letting the woman into their room. He excuses himself and leaves, closing the door on them. 

“I’m sorry,” Catelyn says again. “I know Arya gave you a bit of trouble today and I wanted to thank you. I brought you a lemon cake.” She reveals the cake, folded inside a cloth, and sets it on the table. 

“She was no trouble,” Brienne tells her. “But thank you for the cake.” 

The two of theme exchange pleasantries, all the while Catelyn’s eyes land on the crumpled dress. 

Brienne sighs and explains the significance of the garment and how it came to be a mess on the bed. “It is not something I want to wear.” 

“Have you put it on?” Catelyn wants to know. 

“W-well, no.” 

Laughing, Catelyn says, “Why don’t you put it on. If it doesn’t fit or you don’t like it, there might be something we can do about it.” She turns around to afford Brienne her privacy. 

Brienne hesitates before unlacing her tunic and breeches. She makes a lot of noise getting the dress on, and Catelyn has to help with the laces up the length of her back to see how it truly fits. 

“Here,” Catelyn says, guiding her toward the looking glass. 

The dress was made to fit Brienne, and it does in the sense that the length is right and the bodice is not squeezing her torso too tightly. But it doesn’t fit _her_. 

Catelyn circles around her. She pinches the fabric and seemingly takes measurements using the distance between her thumb and index finger. “Hmm,” she murmurs, assessing the loose sleeves and thin straps. 

“What?” Brienne asks, leery. 

“Do you mind if I take it with me? Make some adjustments?” 

“Of course not,” Brienne says, “but your son is getting married tomorrow. You don’t have time to worry about my wardrobe. I’d feel quite awful if you spent time on it only for me to never wear it.” 

Catelyn shrugs. “It’s no bother. Whether you wear it or not.” 

In the hallway, Jaime hears the rustle of clothing and the door nearly smacks him upside the head when it opens. Catelyn offers a tight smile and walks away carrying what appears to be Brienne’s dress folded in her arms. 

“What is going on?” he asks, re-entering the room and barring the door behind him. 

“Lady Catelyn brought us lemon cake. To thank me for looking after Arya a bit today,” Brienne explains. 

He eyes the cake on the table but shakes his head. “No, no... with the dress.” 

“Lady Catelyn thinks she can make it into something I will want to wear.” 

Jaime imagines a pair of red and gold breeches and grins. He sits at one of the chairs around the table. He points to the cake and asks, “May I?” 

“She brought it for me!” Brienne scoffs. 

“You have no intention of sharing with your lord husband?” 

She clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, annoyed, but joins him at the table. “Fine. I will share.” 

Jaime grins and lets his wife break off a piece of before he does the same, spilling crumbs across the table as he lifts a bite to his mouth. He sits back and watches her lick the sticky sweetness from her fingers. “I saw you today with the child.” 

She looks at him. _So?_

“It seems the girl quite enjoys your company.” 

Brienne shrugs a shoulder. “I imagine she thinks I'm a giant.” 

“She likes you. And I think you enjoyed her company as well.” 

“I found her quite troublesome.” 

“I doubt that,” Jaime says. 

Brienne heaves a sigh. 

“All I’m saying,” he tells her, “is that watching the two of you makes me wonder if having a child isn’t something only my father wants us to do.” 

She stands up with enough force that the chair wobbles in her wake. “Why must you go on about it? Lady Catelyn asked me to keep an eye on the girl and I simply obliged her request. It was nothing more,” Brienne tells him, pivoting away from him. 

* 

Brienne sleeps with her back to Jaime, a wide gulf of mattress between them. He stares at the back of her head, wondering if she is repulsed at the idea of having any child at all or his child specifically. He exhales a sharp breath. He flops onto his back for a moment and then rolls onto his side again. Another sigh. 

Beside him, Brienne groans and tosses the blankets aside as she sits up. “Will you stop?” 

“Stop what?” he asks. 

“Moving! Breathing!” 

Jaime lifts up from the bed, mirroring her posture. “I will not apologize for being restless when you are the reason for it!” 

“Me?” 

He nods, fervent, and points a finger at her. 

Brienne stares daggers at him before throwing her legs over the side of the bed. She stands and crosses to the hearth. 

Jaime finds himself once again gazing at the back of her head, illuminated by the flicker of flames. His anger subsides when he hears her sniffle and notices her shoulders tremble, briefly crumbling under the strain of holding back tears. “Brienne,” he whispers, remorseful. “I’m sorry. Alright? Come back.” 

She keeps her back to him but says, “I’m not upset about that.” 

He stands from the bed but keeps his feet planted on the floor beside it. 

“My mother,” she says, barely audible. She clears her throat and repeats, only slightly louder, “My mother. And your mother.” 

Jaime’s chest tightens. He tries to speak, but his mouth is dry. His tongue wets his lips and he takes a small step forward. “Brienne. Did your mother die in childbirth?” he asks, feeling sorry that he doesn’t already know the answer. 

She nods. 

He moves to her then, standing beside her, looking in the same direction – to the fire. “I didn’t know.” 

“I don’t like to discuss it.” 

Jaime reaches sideways. He hooks his fingers loosely around hers. “I understand.” The flames are dying in the hearth, but he doesn’t want to let to go of her. He doesn’t want to leave Brienne’s side, fearing she will clamp her mouth shut and never speak of the subject again. “Is that why... is that one of the reasons you always pull away from me when we... get close?” 

“Y-yes.” 

He exhales, sad but relieved it’s not that she is still disgusted by the idea of him. “My mother gave birth to me and Cersei without complications,” Jaime tells her, reminding her it was his mother’s second pregnancy that ended in her death. 

She turns her head sharply to look at him. 

“I have many aunts and many cousins.” 

“You do?” Brienne asks, hopeful, as she does not. 

“Yes. Many.” 

She closes her eyes. 

Jaime lets go of her hand. He moves to stand in front of her. “Do you want to be a mother?” 

Brienne slowly opens her eyes. “Someday.” 

He smiles. “No matter what your septa said, we do not have the same fate as our parents.” 

“It’s not only that,” she confesses. “I grew up with only a father. I don’t know how to be a mother.” 

Jaime reaches out and takes both of her hands in his. “I know you will be a wonderful mother when you want to be one.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because,” he says, “you took excellent care of me.” 

She blushes. 

“Brienne, listen. Every time a man and woman lie together, they don’t have to risk a babe. There are ways to prevent it. Until you are ready.” 

“I know about moon tea,” she whispers. “But it’s not always available.” 

“There are other ways,” he grins, lascivious. He is forever charmed and allured by her innocence. “I’ll show you. When you’re ready to... be close to me again.” 

Brienne swallows against the nervous lump in her throat. She is grateful for Jaime’s kindness and patience, but wishes she felt bold enough to thank him with a kiss. She wishes she felt bold enough to ask him to show her the other ways.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding at Winterfell brings Jaime and Brienne closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like this chapter took forever to write, and yet it looks so short. Hopefully it doesn't feel too rushed!

The Great Hall is to be cleaned and kept that way in advance of the wedding celebration. For that reason, breakfast is served outside and children walk around holding bowls of porridge with both hands. A small boy trips on a rock and lands on the ground with a thud, spilling his meal. He wails and kicks his feet wildly behind him. 

Brienne doesn’t see anyone coming to the child’s aid. She sighs and asks Jaime to take her bowl, freeing her hands to help the boy to his feet. She walks him back to where the porridge is being served, asking for a fresh bowl for the child and sending him off with it. 

She returns to her seat on a bench beside Jaime and rolls her eyes at the grin on his face. 

* 

Nearly everyone in Winterfell has a job to do as the hour of the wedding nears, leaving parts of the grounds rather empty and quiet. Jaime leads Brienne to the yard where the Stark boys can usually be found with their swords or aiming an arrow at a target across the way. He gestures to all of the empty space and asks, “Are you any good with a bow and arrow?” 

Hunting is not a common practice on Tarth, especially for a highborn lady. It was enough of a challenge for a young Brienne to convince her father she should be allowed a sword. But she answers by saying, “Of course.” 

Jaime hides a knowing smile. He reaches for a bow and several arrows, carrying them until he’s a good distance from the row of targets. As a boy, he was better than most at archery, but never better than he was with a sword. He readies the weapon and takes the proper stance. Aiming at the center of the target, Jaime pulls back on the bow and releases the arrow. It soars with precision, landing exactly where he meant it to. He looks over his shoulder at Brienne. 

She knows that beneath his gloating smile, Jaime is genuinely surprised by his performance. She regrets pretending to be anything but a novice when they gain an audience. 

Jon Snow approaches the yard, his stride gaining speed when he spots them. His feet skid to a stop, kicking up the dirt. He greets them politely before asking, “Are you going to spar?” 

Brienne begins to respond but is interrupted by a female voice calling out, “Lady Brienne.” They all turn to see Catelyn and the woman goes on to say, “May I have a moment of your time? I have something to show you.” 

“Yes, of course,” Brienne responds. She looks at Jaime. “Apologies, Ser Jaime. I must withdraw from the competition.” 

Jaime laughs and says, “That’s alright. We shall have a rematch soon. Maybe this young man will take your place?” 

Jon squares his shoulders, standing taller. “I came to the yard to use my sword, not an arrow,” the boy explains. He pauses, nervously looking down and back up. “Would you spar with me, Ser Jaime?” 

“Yes!” Brienne answers for him. She tampers her excitement and says, lower, “I mean, I’m sure he would be happy to. Right, Ser Jaime?” 

“Right,” Jaime adds, pleased more at his wife’s glee than by the respect he’s shown from the boy. 

Catelyn clears her throat and Brienne turns to join the other woman, looking over her shoulder as they walk away from the scene. 

* 

“I hope you don’t mind, but I had someone take the dress to your room,” Catelyn says as they climb the stairs of the guest chambers. 

“Of course not. Thank you,” Brienne says, leading the way down the hall. She opens the door to the room and sees a garment draped across the bed. It is mostly the same fabric and all the same colors as the dress that had been packed in the trunk, but to her eyes it is entirely new. It left the room as something Brienne was never going to wear. Something meant to be worn privately for the pleasure of her husband. Now, the sleeves are longer and trimmed in a golden-colored fur. The bodice has been enhanced – fine gold fabric added underneath to extend the neckline up just under the collarbone. The skirt has been lined with layers of warm wool, making it warmer and billow out. Catelyn has added a red surcoat, and its sleeves and hem are trimmed in the same flaxen fur as the dress. The newly created ensemble looks like something Brienne would not be embarrassed to wear, and she is surprised at how eager she is to try it on. 

“Well?” Catelyn prompts. 

Brienne peels her eyes away from the garment to look at Catelyn. “I cannot believe that is the same dress you took from this room,” she remarks. 

“Does that mean you like it?” 

Brienne nods adamantly. “Yes. Yes! It’s beautiful. Did you do all of this yourself?” 

Catelyn offers one modest nod of her head. “In my house a lady began working with a needle and thread right out of the cradle. And once you have children, all you ever do is make pants longer and stitch where a shirt has been torn... Don’t you want to try it on before I leave? In case it needs any adjustments?” 

Brienne undresses down to her smallclothes. She gingerly picks the gown up from the bed. She sits then stands, awkwardly guessing the best way to put it on. She figures it out and soon slides her arms into the sleeves. 

“Brienne! You are stunning.” 

She bows her head, blushing. She turns around to allow Catelyn access to the laces. Brienne feels the material slowly tighten around her torso. She breathes through a moment of panic at the idea of wearing a dress. But as Catelyn finishes and guides her to the mirror, Brienne releases her anxiety in a long, cleansing breath. She sees herself in the surface of the looking glass and tears sting her eyes. “I never thought...” Brienne never thought anything other than chainmail and armor would suit her so well. “Thank you,” she says, turning from her reflection to face Catelyn. 

“It was my pleasure, dear.” 

Brienne chews her bottom lip. 

“Is there something you dislike? I can ma-” 

“No, the dress is perfect. Thank you,” Brienne says. “I wondered if... may I ask you a rather personal question?” 

Catelyn nods and gestures to the table. 

The two of them sit and Brienne folds her hands on her lap. She has never sewn anything, and she imagines there is a difference between sewing as a lady and sewing as a mother. One is a required practice, the other a necessity. “Did you... did you always know you wanted to be a mother?” 

Catelyn smiles. She holds Brienne’s nervous gaze and says, “There is no simple answer to that question, I’m afraid. I took care of my siblings and enjoyed watching over them. I always knew it was expected of me to have children. The better question, I suppose, is whether or not I was worried about being a mother.” 

“Worried?” 

“I lost my own mother when she birthed my youngest brother. I knew I would have children and enjoy being a mother. I was frightened, though, to think there could come a time I would have a son or daughter and not live to see the child grow.” 

Brienne shivers at hearing another woman vocalize her own thoughts and fears. “What did you do? Not to be frightened?” 

Catelyn asks, “Did you know Ned and I were separated by war for the first year of our marriage?” 

“No,” Brienne gasps. 

“We were. It took a bit of time for me to truly love my husband. Once I came to love him and trust him and saw his goodness, I became less and less afraid. My desire to live life with him was far greater than any fears I had about dying.” 

Brienne reaches up to catch a tear with the heel of her hand. 

Catelyn reaches out and squeezes Brienne’s hand. After a moment of quiet and comfort, she says, “I’m sorry, but I must be on my way.” 

“Of course.” Brienne rises from her seat. The two of them walk to the door. “Thank you,” she tells Catelyn, “for the dress and for...” 

“You are most welcome.” 

* 

Jaime returns to the room with his hair matted by sweat. His cheeks are ruddy from the cold and the exertion of sparring with a tireless boy. He sees Brienne seated by the hearth, her back to him. “That boy has promise,” he remarks, hanging his cape. He moves to stand beside her and warm at the fire. “If he could train with me I’d have-” Jaime goes silent, taking notice for the first time of the ruby red skirt and sleeves peeking out from under a red surcoat. 

“You're filthy, Jaime,” Brienne tells him, wrinkling her nose in disgust. She stands from her seat and backs away. “You need a bath.” 

His eyes follow her across the room. 

“Stop staring and clean yourself up,” she admonishes him. 

“I’m sorry, but I did not expect to see you wearing that.” 

Brienne looks down. “I have time to change.” 

“No!” Jaime shouts, shaking his head and waving his hands. “Don’t.” He walks closer to her. “Please. It’s a pleasant surprise. As long it’s what you want to wear.” 

She nods. “It is.” 

“Good then. May I see the rest of it? 

She shakes her head. “Clean and dress for the wedding, Jaime,” Brienne repeats herself. 

“I’ll see eventually,” he points out, but she gives a firm shake of her head. He sighs his disappointment, but knowing she’s chosen to wear a dress – and seeing her in Lannister colors – sends a pleasurable chill along the length of his spine. 

“Bathe, Jaime!” 

He laughs. “Care to join me?” he asks, bracing himself for a groan of frustration or outright insult. He is pleased when she only pinches her nose at the smell of him and points to where she has a basin filled with lukewarm water. “Fine, fine,” Jaime says, unlacing his tunic. 

* 

Jaime is quick, soon looking scrubbed and polished, dressed in his finest red leather jerkin. He drapes his cape over his shoulders and opens the door to where Brienne has been waiting outside the room. He offers his arm, pleased when she hooks hers around it. “Will that be warm enough for you?” he asks as they walk the hall to descend the stairs into the cold. 

“I believe so,” Brienne says, tightening her hold on him when they reach the brisk evening air and discover a light snowfall has begun. 

They walk arm-in-arm to where the guests have gathered at the godswood. Jaime and Brienne find a spot to stand, the shoulders of her red coat dusted with the faint, soft flakes. She feels them land softly on her hair and tilts her head back, staring at their beautiful, slow descent from the sky. 

Jaime tugs on her sleeve and whispers, “It’s starting.” 

She trains her eyes on the weirwood as the young bride and groom walk along the frosted ground and take their places. She listens to them recite their vows, Robb and Jenye’s eyes locked in an excited, hopeful gaze. Brienne finds Catelyn in the crowd. She can only see the woman in profile but notices a tear slide from the corner of her eye, and Brienne sees Ned curl his arm around his wife’s waist. Everything about the moment is lovely, but she feels an odd pinprick of discomfort in the center of her chest. 

The sound of the vows recedes and Brienne thinks back to the day she and Jaime stood in the sept on Tarth. The words they spoke to each other were almost exactly the same, but far less poetic. They were hollow words spoken in a mannered tone. She turns her head to look at Jaime, feeling almost remorseful at how insincere their nuptial was. 

* 

The Great Hall is crowded with bodies and with joy, and Jaime almost feels like part of it all. 

He asks Brienne for the second time if she’d like to remove her surcoat, but she refuses again. She does, however, refill his chalice without prompting. He invites her to dance with the other couples but she shakes her head. Yet, she does not shift away when his thigh presses against hers as they sit feasting on honey-roasted chicken. She even gives him a sincere, sympathetic smile when Ned crosses the room to interrupt a conversation between Jaime and Jon – urging the boy away from The Kingslayer. 

When Brienne leaves his side to join Catelyn and her daughters for a game, Jaime feels adrift. He wanders about, hearing bits and pieces of discussions but never feeling as though he can stop to join in. He ends up on the perimeter of the festivities, observing from afar. His eyes lock on Brienne, hoping she’ll catch sight of him and understand what he is communicating with his stare – that he is unmoored without her, that he wants to go where it is only the two of them, that he wants to see all of the damn dress. 

Jaime is lost in thought, the noise muted and his vision blurring everything and everyone, save for his wife. He is pulled from his reverie when someone knocks into him, and all at once the sound returns. It is chaotic and he sees everyone on their feet. He finds Brienne and she is looking all around her in a panic, and beside her Lady Catelyn stands with a hand over her mouth. 

A young man passes and Jaime grabs him by the sleeve of his shirt. “What happened?” 

Before the boy can answer, Brienne runs toward him, winded as she tells him, “He’s gone missing. Bran. The baby.” 

Jaime’s throat constricts but he grabs hold of her hands and says, “Stay calm, Brienne. He can’t have gotten very far.” 

“What if someone took him?” 

“I’m sure that is not what happened. He probably crawled into a hiding place and fell asleep.” He squeezes her hands before letting go to join the search. 

Everyone is looking down at their feet and bending to look under tables and chairs and benches. But Jaime looks upward. He walks along the edges of the room and stops when he spies a chair out of place. He had seen children playing there earlier, had watched them push the chair against the side of a table that sits underneath a window. There on the sill sits Bran Stark, his short, chubby legs dangling. 

Jaime laughs to himself and darts across the room, shouting, “He’s there!” As everyone turns to see, Jaime moves the chair and then the table, reaching up to Bran. He takes the boy into his arms and turns around as Catelyn and Ned run toward them. “He’s going to be quite the climber,” he remarks, handing the boy over to his parents. 

Catelyn clutches Bran tightly to her chest and mouths, “Thank you,” while Ned can only muster a nod of thanks. The two of them walk away, revealing Brienne a few feet away, watching the scene. 

Jaime smiles at her, expecting the same in return. But she only stares for a long moment before saying, “Come outside with me.” 

He obeys, following her through the muttering crowd. She seems angry and he wonders what about finding the boy was wrong. She pushes through the doors ahead of him and he can see the ground is white with snow. It soaks through his boots to his wool socks, and the hem of Brienne's dress drags across the bed of white until she stops several feet away from the hall. “What is it th-” 

Brienne silences him when she frames his face with her hands and her lips seek his. The press of her mouth is heavy but still, and the kiss is over nearly before it begins. Her hands drop to his shoulders as she leans her head back. 

“I wish you wouldn’t stop,” he whispers, his breath a cloud of frost between their faces. “I want to-” 

She silences him with another kiss, her mouth opening against Jaime’s. He loops his arms around her and their bodies press together. 

The falling snow gathers speed – the thick flakes collect on their heads and shoulders, drop softly against their faces – as their kiss intensifies. Jaime is not ignorant to the hall full of men, women, and children behind them, but part of him wants to pull Brienne down and fuck her on the soft bed of snow. 

Brienne leans away from his lips long enough to whisper, “I’m ready. To be close again." 

He nearly drags her down with him to the ground at that. He despairs at the idea of disentangling, of losing the heat and closeness of her body. But Jaime retains his composure enough to say, “Let’s go to our room,” and parts from her only as much as they must to trudge through the snow. 

* 

The journey down the hallway to their room is far too long, Jaime thinks. He grabs a handful of Brienne’s coat and gently pushes her back against the wall. He kisses her, his hands sliding underneath the outermost garment, groping at her hips and up to her chest. She clings to him but pushes away from the wall, their bodies spinning once, twice, dancing their way down the hall without ever breaking contact. He nearly kicks the door down and once inside, slams it closed with such force the wood almost cracks. 

While Jaime bars the door, Brienne lifts her surcoat over her head and discards it on the floor. He turns around and sees the whole of her dress for the first time. His breath catches in his throat. He wants her even more, but his body is too overcome by her to move at the same frantic pace. “You look... astonishing,” he says, his eyes raking up and down. The contrast of the deep red against her milky skin is breathtaking. The bodice gives her a woman’s shape. She is regal and her beauty is commanding, and if he didn’t want to kiss her again so desperately, he would think it fitting to drop to his knees before her. 

She reaches out to grasp the lapels of his jerkin, pulling Jaime forward as she begins to disrobe him. He kicks away his boots as her fingers quickly divest him of his tunic. Down to his breeches, he grasps Brienne’s hips and spins her around. His fingers pull at the laces of her dress, and he thinks how the moment he finally gets to see her in the dress is the same moment he can’t wait to get her out of it. 

Brienne draws in a shaky breath when she feels the fabric loosen around her chest, but she ignores her insecurities and turns to look at him. She watches Jaime’s face, his eyes darkening with lust as she removes one arm from its sleeve and then the other. The garment slides down, revealing the expanse of her collarbone and then her breasts as it pools around her waist. She gives it a shove over her hips and the dress falls into a puddle of red and gold at her feet. 

Jaime smiles and closes the distance between them, bending his head to drop kisses from her neck to her chest. He opens his mouth around one breast, suckling, his tongue lashing across the pink, pebbled flesh. He moans against her skin when he feels Brienne’s hand latch onto the back of his neck, holding him there, responding to him. Wanting him. 

He stands to his full height and they crash together, a tangle of long limbs and wet kisses and hands scorching skin. Jaime silently prays to the gods that Brienne will not, as she has in the past, let her desire be drowned by her fear and inhibitions. He stops worrying when she shoves his breeches and smallclothes down his hips, kissing him as her hand – gingerly at first, then with a firm, confident grasp – strokes his cock. When it becomes too much, he clasps her wrist and lifts her hand flat to his chest. 

Brienne feels the frantic rhythm of his heart against her palm. She thinks about their wedding night, and every encounter after. She never believed Jaime had true desire for her then, and she has always felt the need to repress herself. To stifle and deny. Feeling his heartbeat and knowing it matches the way her own pounds in her chest, she can’t deny that he wants her and she wants him. She won’t. 

Their bodies fall onto the bed and Brienne feels safe and warm pinned under the weight of him. She recalls what Catelyn said about wanting to experience life with her husband badly enough that it overpowered her fears. She looks into Jaime's eyes, feeling like everything is slow, torturously slow, and yet happening too fast. She is desperate for his touch but wants to feel every brush of his lips and caress of his hands. 

“I’m ready,” she tells Jaime, repeating her earlier words, opening her body for him and to him. It feels like their first time, but nothing about it hurts.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne begin to feel more at home in the North and with each other.

The hearth has been neglected – it is only dying embers. The room is cold but they are not. 

Brienne straddles Jaime, rolling her hips at a sweet, slow pace. Sweat shines on her skin, and beneath her, Jaime’s eyes follow the path of a bead as it slides along the hollow of her throat. He lifts himself up then, folding his arms around her and pressing his face to her chest, absorbing the drop. He opens his mouth around the tip of her breast and tastes the salt of her damp skin. He bucks his hips, changing their tempo from languid to vigorous. 

“Jaime,” she gasps his name, her head falling to his shoulder, bouncing there with every thrust. She clings to him as he drives into her, nails digging into the sweat-slicked skin of his back. Brienne turns her head, opening her mouth against his neck, muffling the sound of her cries of pleasure. She pulses around his cock and hears Jaime’s breath quicken and feels empty when he is suddenly not inside her. 

He grunts as he pulls out, stroking himself through his own release. He shudders and spills onto her thigh as Brienne leans back, watching. Jaime’s body goes slack and he falls against the mattress. 

She remains astride him, smiling and blushing. She understands now what Jaime meant when he said they did not have to risk pregnancy every time they were intimate. He showed her once last night when he spent himself in his own hand and now, she feels it sticky on her skin. 

“I wonder what time it is?” Jaime remarks. They are awash in wintry, gray light, but he has no concept of the exact time of day – it could be dawn or nearing dusk. 

Brienne wonders if they missed any meals. Her first instinct is to be ashamed of everyone knowing Lord and Lady Lannister did not leave their chambers until everyone else had long begun their days. Looking down at Jaime, though, she instead feels pleased. She feels proud of the way they united, of how he – her husband – made her feel. How she made him feel. The pleasure they took in one another until they fell asleep and woke, tangled, to do it again. 

Jaime pats her hip, gently urging her to move and free his legs. He rises from the bed and finds a cloth, wiping her thigh clean. He bends and drops a kiss on the top of her head. He lifts his hand and cups the back of her neck, her hair matted by sweat. Brienne’s lips part and Jaime kisses her. She shifts on the bed, sitting up on her knees. He moans into her mouth as her fingers graze his cock, and he pauses to warn her, “If you don’t stop doing that, we are never going to be able to leave this room.” 

“Nothing would make me happier,” Brienne tells him, her voice husky. 

He grins and folds his arms around her. 

* 

Brienne opens her eyes to the glow of candlelight, a roaring fire, and an empty bed. She sits up, dragging the furs with her, clutching them to her chest. Her eyes blink and search the room. There is no sign of Jaime, but she knows he recently lit the candles and added wood to the hearth. 

The door creaks open and he appears holding a tray. “Hello,” he says, nudging the door closed with his hip. He sets the tray down to bar the door. 

“Where did you go?” she asks, the words garbled by a yawn. 

“To the kitchens. They served stew with brown bread for supper,” Jaime says, gesturing to two bowls and a cloth wrapped around the loaf. “I ran into Lady Catelyn.” 

Blush crawls across Brienne’s cheeks. “What did she say? What did you tell her?” 

“I told her my lovely lady wife and I have been fucking one another senseless since the wedding feast.” 

“Jaime!” Her cheeks blazed with an angry red. 

He smiles. “Don’t worry. I did not say that. I told her we’ve been making love night and day.” 

She reaches for a pillow and lobs it at him. 

Jaime ducks, laughing. He picks up a gold cup from the tray and says, “I told her you haven’t been feeling well and I was keeping watch like any dutiful husband would.” 

“Did she believe you?” 

“She said she hopes it wasn’t any of the food they served last night.” He doesn’t mention the looks he got from some of the other inhabitants of the guest quarters – men and women who likely heard him grunting and groaning and Brienne moaning and chanting his name and the bed banging against the wall. 

Brienne’s shoulders relax. 

Jaime sits on the bed. He offers her the cup and says, “Moon tea.” 

“But we- oh. Right,” she says, recalling the most recent time and how he’d spilled inside her. Her hands dwarf the small cup. She bends her head to smell the tea, wrinkling her nose before taking a sip. “How did you get this?” she asks, worried. 

“I was discreet,” Jaime tells her. He watches her sip the hot liquid and takes the cup when it’s empty. “I don’t know about you, but I am famished.” He nods toward the table by the hearth. “Shall we?” 

Brienne smiles and slides out from under the furs. She reaches for the first garment she finds. It is Jaime’s tunic and she discards it on the bed to find her own. 

“No, wear mine,” he says. 

She shrugs and picks the garment up again, sliding her arms into the sleeves. 

Jaime watches her cross the room, her long legs exposed, and exhales a satisfied sigh. “The benefit to pretending you are sick,” he says, “is that we have license not to leave the room again for at least another day. Possibly two.” 

She shakes her head, breaking off a piece of bread. “We can’t do that.” 

He pauses, thinking. “You’re right. We can’t.” 

“Wait. Why?” she asks, catching the strain in his voice. 

Jaime grimaces. “Lord Eddard Stark told me I am not welcome here after the wedding.” 

Brienne drops the bread onto the tray. “When did he say that?” she asks, angry, thinking of how Jaime found Bran when the boy crawled and climbed out of sight. 

“After our first dinner here.” 

Her anger recedes somewhat. “I wish you would tell him the truth about King Aerys.” 

“No.” 

“Let me tell-” 

“No, Brienne,” Jaime says firmly, reaching across the small space between them to put his hand on her knee. “Please keep that to yourself.” 

She nods, smiling through gritted teeth. 

He squeezes her knee before turning his attention to the stew, scooping a spoonful to his mouth. 

* 

She is the first to wake. The room is still dark. The candles are burnt down to nubs of wax and Brienne has to stoke the fire. She dresses quietly, forgoing some layers, and plucks her fur cape from the hook on the wall. 

Brienne tiptoes down the hallway and down the stairs, shuddering when she opens the door. A walking path has been cleared in the snow and she follows it toward the keep. Her steps are determined, but she has not rehearsed what she plans to say to Ned. She only knows it offends her that Jaime is so unwelcome, and it pains her to think of leaving Winterfell so soon. 

“Lady Brienne?” 

She startles at the sound and turns to see Jon Snow. 

“Didn’t mean to give you a fright,” he says. 

She smiles. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be awake at this hour.” 

“We always are,” he tells her. “Arya and Bran... they make the lot of us early risers. My father and Lady Catelyn are in the hall. Shall I take you there?” 

“Yes, thank you,” she says, following alongside him. As they near the Great Hall she can hear the wild squeaks and laughter of the youngest children, and when Jon opens the door the noise roars in her ears – joyful and silly and sweet. She sees Catelyn bouncing Bran on her knee, and Arya climbing up her father’s back as he sits trying to eat porridge. Even Sansa is adding to the exuberance, dancing in front of the great hearth. The space was most recently expansive and elegant for a celebration, and somehow it now seems cozier but still large enough to contain the large, energetic family. 

Catelyn catches sight of Brienne and rises from her seat, holding the boy to her hip. “Lady Brienne,” she says, worry etched into her voice. “Is something the matter? Ser Jaime said you were ill.” 

Brienne fights a smile at the way Catelyn refers to Jaime, and she notices Ned bristle at it. “I was,” she responds. “I woke feeling much better. Ser Jaime, however... I think he caught the sickness from me.” 

“Oh, no. Is he fevered?” Catelyn asks. 

Brienne thinks a moment and, hating to tell another lie, settles on nodding her head. Her eyes dart to Ned as she says, “Jaime thought we should take our leave soon, but I don’t believe we should travel quite yet.” 

“Of course not,” Catelyn says. “We have more than enough room and food to have guests. It’s the least we can do to thank Ser Jaime for finding Bran.” 

Ned clears his throat. “The boy was not lost. He was right-” 

“He could have fallen and hurt himself if Jaime hadn’t spotted him when he did,” Catelyn interjects. She looks to Brienne. “Do you need a Maester?” 

“No, I think we can manage.” 

“What about something to eat?” 

Brienne eyes the table. 

Catelyn sets Bran down and reaches for a bowl of figs. She steals two pieces of bread and adds them to the bowl. “At least take this for now,” she says. “And I’ll send tea and honey to your room later.” 

* 

Jaime doesn’t wake until Brienne has been back in the room, sitting at the table nibbling on the figs, for quite some time. He sits up and stretches his arms, smiling sleepily at her. 

“You are sick now,” she tells him. 

He squints. Blinks. “Pardon?” 

Brienne takes a deep breath. “I didn’t want to leave quite yet. And I don’t think you do either?” 

He tosses the furs aside and swings his legs over the side of the bed. His breeches are slung low on his hips and he yanks them up. “No, I don’t,” he says, surprised at his own answer. “I don’t like _Winterfell_. I like _us_ in Winterfell.” 

She stands, smiling and nodding. They walk toward one another, her hands reaching for his until they are interrupted by a knock on the door. Brienne points to the bed and Jaime scrambles to dress in a tunic and get back under the furs. 

Brienne opens the door and says, “Jon. Hello.” 

The boy offers a courtly nod. He is holding a tray with two saucers of tea and a metal pot of honey. “I asked Catelyn if I could bring you and Ser Jaime the tea.” 

“Thank you. That is very kind.” She reaches for the tray but he does not loosen his grip. 

“May I?” he asks, looking toward the space between the door and its frame. 

Brienne hesitates. “I’d hate for you to get sick.” 

“Father says I have a robust system. I never catch a fever from the other children.” 

She smiles and hears Jaime laugh quietly. She glances over her shoulder, making sure he is decent before opening the door further. “Alright, then,” she tells Jon. “Please, come in.” 

Jon’s eyes sweep the room as he carries the tray to the table. He stands beside it, shoulders square, like a soldier. “Ser Jaime, I hope this tea helps. I was looking forward to the chance to spar with you again. If you are agreeable to it, of course.” 

Jaime forgets the ruse for a moment and answers with a strong, jovial, “It would be my pleasure.” He clears his throat and coughs into his hand. “As soon as I’m well.” 

“Someday I hope to best Theon in a tourney,” Jon says. 

“I’m confident that will happen.” 

Brienne sits at the table and plucks a fig from the bowl. She notices Jon train his eyes on the fruit and she asks, “Would you like one?” 

“Yes, please,” he says, taking one. “Arya hoards these in the pockets of her dress and I never get any.” 

Brienne laughs. “Have a seat, please.” 

Jon eagerly takes a seat in the chair on the other side of the small table. He twists the stem from the fig and bites into it, juice gathering at the corners of his mouth. “Where did you learn to fight?” Jon asks, wiping his hand across his mouth. 

“I picked up a sword for the first time on Casterly Rock,” Jaime replies. “Where I live now with Lady Brienne.” 

“What’s it like there?” the boys asks. “I’ve never left the North.” 

Jaime throws the covers aside. He stands and drags a chair across the room closer to the table and the hearth. He sits down, gesturing to the bowl of figs, and Jon happily tosses one to him. “It overlooks the Sunset Sea and the harbor of Lannisport. It is carved out of a great stone hill. It is two leagues long from east to west.” 

Jon’s eyes widen and he looks to Brienne for confirmation. 

She nods and adds in a whisper, “The entrance to the castle is a lion’s mouth.” 

“There are tunnels,” Jaime says. 

“And gold to be mined,” Brienne adds. 

Jaime nods. “Also dungeons. And as a boy I dove off the cliffs.” 

“You stopped?” Jon asks, incredulous. 

Jaime and Brienne’s laughter overlaps. He says, “My days of jumping off cliffs are long over. But if you ever visit us there, I might reconsider.” 

Jon sits up straighter, beaming. 

The three of them remain gathered around the hearth, telling Jon of the parts of Westeros he’s yet to see – the sapphire sea surrounding Tarth, the dry sand and decadence of Dorne. Jaime regales him with tales from the Kingsguard and tourneys while Brienne observes the joy on her husband’s face. She closes her eyes a moment, imaging the two of them in much the same scenario, only the boy sitting with them has the golden hair of a Lannister. 

* 

It only takes a matter of days for Jaime and Brienne to feel like they are living at Winterfell rather than simply staying there as guests. 

Living at Winterfell means working there, and Jaime often finds himself in the stables helping to groom or train the horses. Brienne accompanies Catelyn into town now and then, wearing her full suit of armor, feeling like a household knight sworn to protect the Starks. He stops shaving the hair on his face and she becomes accustomed to the scratch of short, wiry hairs around her mouth when they kiss. 

During the day, when they are not immersed in the daily work of the castle, Jaime and Brienne spar in the courtyard with an audience – mostly made of young boys, but every day they spot the face of a new girl. He practices archery and she allows Sansa to teach her how to use a needle and thread. 

At night, after dining in the hall, Jaime and Brienne retire to their chambers – sometimes with a decanter of wine. They make love on the floor by the fire, in bed under the furs, up against the wall. Afterward, Jaime leaves her only long enough to fetch a cup of moon tea. 

* 

The sky has not poured new snow on the ground in several days. Jaime can see dirt and dead grass beneath what has already melted or been trampled clear by feet and wheels. He can stand outside without a cape to shield him from the bite of cold and wind. 

He dashes from the stables to the guest house, charging into the room. 

Brienne startles, sitting on the bed, bent to lace her boots. “What’s the matter, Jaime?” 

He shakes his head, a coy smile playing on his lips. 

“Jaime.” 

“Nothing,” he insists. “What are you getting ready to do?” 

“Accompany Catelyn into town for-” 

“Don’t,” Jaime says. “It’s practically _warm_ out. Spend the day with me. Let’s take a walk.” 

She doesn’t need a terrible amount of convincing, but allows him to sell her on the idea – proclaiming the benefits of fresh air and his company and his enjoyment of her. “Okay, okay,” Brienne concedes. 

He extends his hand, wiggling his fingers until she takes hold of him and allows Jaime to pull her to her feet. She plucks her cape from the hook, tying it closed as they walk. 

Outside, Brienne lightly smacks his arm and says, “It is not at all warm, Jaime Lannister.” 

“It will be once we start walking.” 

She hooks her arm around his, nuzzling against his side. 

Jaime leads the way, taking her through a gate and along the perimeter of Winterfell – surrounded on one side by the vast forest and on the other by the stone curtain wall. He tells her of the raven Tywin sent, and they laugh thinking how insistent the man was on the two of them taking the trip only to be incensed they haven’t already begun the journey home. “You are needed at Casterly Rock,” Jaime says, repeating the final words of the message in a mocking tone. 

They come upon the North Gate and re-enter the grounds. “I want to show you something,” Jaime says, guiding her to the broken tower. He explains its lore and how he’d been told early in their stay that it was a perfect place to hide. 

The two of them climb the crooked stairs, hands joined, to the top. Brienne marvels at the height. After a few minutes she turns to leave. 

“Where are you going?” Jaime asks, leaning against the rounded, stone wall. “Did you not hear what I said before. This is a perfect place to _hide_.” 

“What do we need to hide from?” 

He laughs, shrugging his shoulders. “Perhaps hide is the wrong word. I thought a change of scenery would be nice. Not that I’m tired of the bed we share or the fur in front of the hearth or-” 

“You brought me here to have sex?” Brienne asks, whispering as though anyone could hear them. 

Jaime approaches her, answering the question when his hands grasp her hips and he gently pushes her back against the wall. “No one will see us. No one will hear us.” His lips brush across hers once before he holds her gaze, asking permission. Her eyes dart about the small, closed-in space before she smiles and leans forward, seeking the press of his lips against her own. 

He removes Brienne’s cape and wool vest. His hands tug until he frees the hem of her tunic out from under the waistband of her breeches. “Wait,” she gasps. “I don’t want to have to ask for moon tea again.” 

“I will be sure to-” 

“You don’t always make it in time, Jaime,” she reminds him. 

He sighs. She is not wrong – it has become more and more difficult for him to willingly pull out from the tight, warmth of her cunt and spill on her belly or in the palm of his own hand. “Okay,” he says. “We won’t risk it.” 

Brienne begins to tuck her shirt in, thinking it means they will take their leave from the tower. Jaime clasps her wrists, stilling her hands and pinning them to the wall at her sides. He resumes kissing her neck, down to her chest, suckling the tip of her breast through the rough-spun tunic. He begins to bend his knees until he is on the ground, staring up at her. 

“Is this alright?” Jaime asks as he unlaces her breeches. 

She nods and feels the fabric loosen around her hips, sliding with her smallclothes down to her ankles. Brienne watches him bunch the hem of her tunic, lifting it. She drags a long, anticipatory breath through her teeth when she feels his mouth near her bare skin. Her back arches against the ragged stone and her hand clutches a fistful of Jaime’s hair as his tongue thrusts in and out of her warm, wet flesh and flicks against the bundle of nerves at the apex of her cunt. 

He moans, encouraging Brienne to express her pleasure – loudly, unbridled. 

And she does. 

* 

The courtyard is crowded with onlookers as Jaime schools Jon and Theon through a match. "Move your hand higher on the hilt," Jaime instructs. 

Brienne watches from afar but is distracted by the sudden sound of a child's cry. She glances around and sees Arya on her knees, tears streaking her face, as Sansa stands nearby looking stricken. The oldest of the two girls catches sight of Brienne and shouts for her, waving her over. 

"What happened here?" Brienne asks. 

"Arya was not supposed to run but she did and she fell," Sansa explains. 

Brienne looks to her left then her right. "Where is your mother?" 

"Away," Sansa tells her. 

"Your father?" 

"With her." 

Brienne sighs and crouches down on the dirt beside Arya. The child sits on the ground, her short legs splayed in front of her. "May I?" Brienne asks, pinching the hem of the girl's dress. 

Arya nods. 

Peeling the hem back, Brienne sees the girl's breeches are torn at the knees. The skin there is scraped and bleeding. "It's nothing to be alarmed by," Brienne assesses, but both girls stare at her blankly. "I will find someone." 

"No!" Arya cries. She looks at Brienne. "You help." 

After a long pause she answers, "Alright," and stands. When Arya reaches her arms up, Brienne understands the child wishes to be picked up and carried, and she bends to lift the girl. She carries Arya against her hip, the girl's arms wound around her neck, as Sansa follows. 

Once in the keep, Brienne narrates her actions, more to guide herself than to inform the children. "First we should clean and dress the wound," she says, happy to see a basin of lukewarm water already in the room. "Then you'll need new breeches. I suppose your mother will want to repair these." 

She hesitates before removing the breeches and setting them aside. She wets a cloth in the water while Arya sits on the edge of her bed, Sansa behind her, watching from over her sister's shoulder. "This may sting a bit," Brienne says, gingerly touching the cloth to the small scratches. Arya winces but does not cry. She finds another towel and rips it in half to use each strip as a bandage. 

"Wait!" Sansa cries. 

"What?" Brienne asks, pausing her work. 

"Mother always kisses the pain first." 

Brienne begins to laugh but falters at the serious expression on both girls' faces. "Oh," she says. She awkwardly offers a quick press of her lips to one knee and then the other. She leans back, looking at Arya's face and seeing the child smile for the first time since she fell. It makes Brienne smile, too, and she carefully wraps the makeshift bandages around each knee. 

* 

Jaime’s hands knead the flesh of Brienne’s thighs, locked tight around his hips. He studies her face – fixed in concentration – as she moves. She rocks back and forth, up and down, her teeth pinching her lower lip. Eyes hooded. He likes to watch her this way, chasing her own pleasure as she grinds against him. 

Brienne tips forward, the palms of her hands bracing against his ribcage as she bucks her hips wildly. She grunts and whimpers and spasms around his cock. She collapses against Jaime as he shudders with his own release, spilling inside her. 

His arms wrap around her, clutching her heated, sated body to his. After a moment of content silence, he whispers, “I won’t even need to leave the room tonight. I already have the moon tea.” 

Brienne stiffens. She lifts herself up, out from the loop of his arms, and looks down at him. Her teeth worry at her bottom lip. 

Jaime sits up, digging his elbows into the bed. “What’s wrong?” 

“I have been thinking, Jaime, and I... I don’t want to drink the tea.” 

His eyes widen. “Ever?” 

She smiles at the hopeful tone in his voice. “I don’t know about _ever_ , but not right now. I think we should see what happens if I stop.” 

Jaime’s eyes well with tears. 

“My decision has nothing to do with anything your father has said. Nothing to do with heirs and legacy,” Brienne states plainly. 

"Good,” he says. “What does it have to do with?” 

She thinks for a beat before telling him, “I’ve liked seeing you here. With the children. I like the way you are with Jon. I think... I like the way it feels to look after someone. Someone so innocent.” 

He sits up, locking his arms around her waist. 

“Someone told me about a desire to live a full life with another person. How that can be bigger than anything you’re afraid of. I want to live a full life with you, Jaime. Is that what you want too?” 

Jaime nods. He leans forward to drop a kiss between her breasts before tilting his head back, looking at her to say, “More than anything.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne are called home where unpleasant news awaits them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers A LOT of ground. I could write the two of them on the road for chapters and chapters, but I wanted to get them to the next hurdle. I started this with the intention of keeping it dark, but I guess Jaime is a romantic and I ended up writing a lot more sweetness than I expected. There is more to come, but with a few more obstacles as well.
> 
> I can't thank you all enough for reading and commenting. I hope you continue to enjoy the story!

The first ill-tempered raven from Tywin was laughable. The second gave Jaime pause. The third is handed to him as he finishes a spoonful of sweetened porridge. 

Jaime licks honey from his finger before breaking the wax seal. He pushes the bowl away with his elbow, making room to unroll the parchment on the table. He glances at Brienne and she scoots closer, reading over his shoulder. The third message lacks the usual bombast of his father’s writing. It bluntly states _You must come home_ , and that simplicity is what makes Jaime take it seriously. 

“Something must be wrong,” he says. 

“Then he should say that,” Brienne tells him, annoyed. 

Jaime looks at her sideways. He lowers his voice. “Do you think he has a point, though? We cannot stay here forever.” 

The corners of her mouth turn downward. Brienne’s gaze sweeps from one end of the hall to the other, lingering over the image of Catelyn’s lap crowded with her two youngest children while Sansa drags Jon from his chair to play. She feels a knot forming in her throat but tries to smile when Jaime covers her hand with his. 

* 

Brienne folds a pair of Jaime’s breeches and bends to add them to a pile of clothes already packed in the trunk. She sees the dress she wore to the wedding and reaches in to rub the fur trim between her fingers. Her back to the door, she is alarmed to hear the sound of her name being called. She spins around, startled, but slowly smiles at the sight of Catelyn holding a parcel. “Please, come in,” she says. 

“You’re packing,” Catelyn observes, the lids of both trunks propped open. Two drawers of the wardrobe are pulled out and emptied. “Ser Jaime broke the news but I hoped I misunderstood.” 

“I’m afraid not,” Brienne tells her. “We received another raven from Jaime’s father." She gestures to the table and chairs. 

The two women sit by the hearth and Catelyn holds the parcel on her lap. “A parting gift,” she says, holding it toward Brienne, who sets it on the table in front of her before carefully breaking the string tied around the paper. She opens the wrapping and to reveal folded red linen and Catelyn explains, “It’s a shawl. Light enough to wear at home, I think.” 

Brienne touches the garment, splaying her pale fingers against the bold red. She lifts it carefully, letting it unspool, and notices a small wolf – the Stark sigil – stitched in one corner. 

“To remember us by,” Catelyn tells her. “Sansa would want me to mention that she helped.” 

“I shall thank her,” Brienne says. “And you. Thank you. It’s lovely.” She winces. “But I should be giving you a gift. For hosting us.” 

Catelyn shakes her head, dismissing the notion. “You are always welcome at Winterfell, Brienne.” 

* 

Departing looks much the same as arriving at Winterfell. The children line up – minus Robb – from oldest to youngest. Ned and Catelyn bookend their family. Curious onlookers gather around the scene. The Lannister’s squire and men-at-arms take their respective places in the caravan. 

Jaime and Brienne – both dressed as Northerners, her shoulders cloaked by the red shawl – stand across from Ned. “We thank you for the hospitality, Lord Stark,” Jaime says, genuinely surprised when Ned agreeably shakes his hand. 

The two of them move to Jon and the boy replaces his solemn expression with a kind smile. “Thank you for the many lessons, Ser Jaime.” 

“It was my pleasure,” Jaime tells him, giving the boy’s hand a hearty shake. “Don’t forget-” 

“My hand should be loose around the pommel,” Jon guesses. 

Jaime grins. “Well, yes. That is correct. But I was going to say, don’t forget you are welcome to visit us at Casterly Rock.” He pauses, glancing to see the sour look on Ned’s face. “With your father’s blessing, of course.” 

The boyish, joyful grin that brightens Jon’s face warms Brienne’s heart. She extends her hand to him and adds, “I have a feeling you could get Ser Jaime to dive from the cliffs once again.” 

They move down the line to Theon and then Sansa. The girl’s chin wobbles and Brienne bends closer to her level. “I love my shawl. Thank you, Sansa.” 

The redhead throws herself against Brienne, and a moment later Arya does the same. Their small arms have a sturdy grip around Brienne and she breathes in the scent of milk and honey, dirt and grass – thinking it is how she will always remember them. Sweet and playful. She feels Jaime’s hand on her shoulder, an encouraging and comforting pressure, and lifts her long arms to embrace the children. She has to strangle a sob in her throat and releases them, swiftly rising to her feet. 

Catelyn holds Bran and hands the boy off to Jaime, freeing her arms to give Brienne a brief but warm hug. She clasps the younger woman’s hands and speaks softly, “I meant what I said. You are always welcome here. Both of you, no matter what my husband says.” 

“Thank you,” Brienne tells her, speaking slowly, hoping she is able to convey everything she wants to thank Catelyn for without having to say so many words – the roof over their heads, the glee of her children, an example of a loving and strong wife and mother, her knowledge, the dress. 

Jaime returns Bran to his mother’s arms and presses his hand to the small of Brienne’s back. “It’s time,” he whispers. 

Her vision is blurred by the tears shining in her eyes, but Brienne takes one final look at the family before climbing into the wagon. She keeps her eyes on them as they are pulled away, and she watches Winterfell grow smaller and smaller – now only a memory. 

“Brienne,” Jaime says, squeezing her hand. 

She turns from the small window, letting the curtain drop, to look at him. 

“It’s alright,” he tells her – to cry, to miss them. 

She sinks against him, drawing in a shaky breath. She closes her eyes and the tears spill down her cheeks. 

* 

Jaime is pressed into the corner of the carriage with Brienne’s head on his lap. She is on her back, stretched across the seat, with her knees bent. He looks down at her face, studying her features – long, nearly transparent eyelashes, the crooked bridge of her nose, the pale scar above her plump lips. He thinks about the first time he touched her skin, how surprising it was to feel such softness beneath his fingers. Brienne’s height and strength and gruff manner betray so much – delicacy, tenderness – and Jaime feels good knowing they have left people in the North knowing what he knows about her. 

His greatest fear returning home is not the threat of snow and illness. It is not the dangers that lurk in the forests or his overbearing father. Jaime’s greatest concern is losing what he and Brienne built as they travel further and further from Winterfell. He’s terrified she will remember how much she preferred living a life separate from him – training with the Master at Arms, shielding her body at night. 

The wheels roll over a rough patch of ground, jostling Brienne awake. She blinks, orienting to the pale light, and tilts her gaze to Jaime’s face. She smiles sleepily. 

Jaime’s fingers comb her hair back. He watches her eyes fight to stay open, the gentle stroke of his fingers against her scalp lulling her. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.” 

* 

They encounter less snow on the road home but make just as many stops along the way. Jaime tells his squire they have become accustomed to a roaring fire and sleeping on a bed, but even Braedon knows Lord and Lady Lannister want the privacy a room at an inn affords. 

At first, Brienne craves the comfort of Jaime’s body more than anything else - being held, the quiet thump of his heartbeat against her cheek. As her sadness over leaving Winterfell behind wanes, she finds her passion again. Every encounter is founded on lust, on the desire to be connected and close, on feeling alive. After a while, they don’t even need a room at an inn. 

She quietly pleasures Jaime in the carriage with her hand. They wander deep into the woods and he fucks Brienne against the wide trunk of a tree. She straddles him, riding him as the carriage careens along the road. He takes her from behind on the floor of the forest, their bodies side by side. 

* 

They reached Fairmarket in the middle of the night and set up camp along the Blue Fork. 

Jaime wakes, face to face with Brienne, as the first threads of dawn brighten the sky. He shifts closer to her under the woolen blanket until their bodies are flush and their legs are tangled. Her eyes flutter open and widen abruptly when Jaime slides a hand from her hip to between her legs. 

“Jaime,” she whispers, scolding. The squire and men-at-arms are asleep on the other side of the dying embers of the fire they had built. 

He begins to stroke her through maddening layers of fabric. Brienne whimpers – partly in protest, mostly in pleasure – as she pushes against the friction. Her hips buck and the pressure builds and she squeezes her thighs around his hand. She kisses Jaime, letting him swallow the sounds she makes. 

The two of them go still at the rustle of leaves. Brienne lifts her head to look over Jaime’s shoulder and sees Lyle roll onto his side. She is not comfortable being touched in such close proximity to the others, and to distract Jaime she lifts her hands to frame his face. The pad of her thumb strokes across the wiry hairs above his lip. “Are you going to shave this off?” she asks in a hushed tone. 

“Do you want me to?” 

She shakes her head. “No. I rather like it,” she tells him. 

Jaime’s hands slide beneath her tunic as he seeks the heat of her mouth, kissing her slowly, quietly. He charts a course along her ribcage, his touch light and teasing, grazing the underside of her breasts. His fingers brush across her taut nipples and she moans into his mouth, the sound vibrating against the back of his own throat. 

Their lips part abruptly at a distant sound. They are frozen in a clinch, listening. It happens again and, alarmed, Brienne pushes away from him. “That is a scream,” she says, scrambling out from under their blanket. 

The commotion rouses Lyle and Jarrad. The two of them sit up, their eyes immediately on the location of their weapons. 

Jaime is on his feet. “We should go,” he tells them, bending to tie the loose laces of his right boot. He looks for his sword, unaware that behind him, Brienne is untying one of the horses – her scabbard fastened around her waist. 

“Ser,” Jarrad says, pointing as Brienne mounts the horse. 

Jaime looks. Sighs. “Brienne!” he shouts, grabbing his scabbard and working quickly to unhitch another of the horses. He takes off in her wake, the horse’s hooves snapping twigs and crunching leaves. He rides through a clearing of trees and sees a man on a horse, and Jaime recognizes the banner waving above his head. _House Bolton_ , he says to himself, and commands the horse to charge forward. 

As he closes in on Brienne, he sees two additional bannermen. “Brienne!” Jaime whispers gravely, a warning. One of the men has his arm locked tight around a woman’s throat, holding her to the front of his body, while the other ransacks a carriage. There is a body on the ground – presumably the woman’s husband. She is holding her belly, swollen with a baby, and struggling. 

The tall man holding her says something ugly into her ear and Brienne charges ahead of Jaime, shouting, “Let her go!” 

Jaime watches as his wife draws her sword. He tries to speak – to remind her she’s not wearing any armor, to demand she flee and stay safe – but the words are lodged in his throat. He dismounts as Brienne raises her weapon, approaching the man nearest the carriage and deftly slicing the blade from his shoulder to hip. He crumples to the ground and Brienne turns, ready as the man on the horse jumps down and barrels toward her. It is then Jaime unsheathes his own sword and attacks the man from behind. 

The only bannerman left standing locks eyes with Jaime. “Kingslayer!” he yells and shoves the pregnant woman toward Jaime, setting his sights on Brienne. His sword strikes at the air, missing her as she dodges his attacks. She is baring her teeth and grunting, lunging and parrying until the man loses his grip on the pommel of his weapon. She takes a deep breath and raises her sword, moments from driving it into the man’s chest when he drops to his knees in surrender. 

Brienne heaves for an easy breath, staring down at the man’s bowed head. She rears back and he stumbles to his feet, taking off toward one of the horses until Jaime cuts him down from behind. The man’s body slams to the ground. She looks at Jaime, confused, and he says, “He recognized me. He would report us. An army of men would come for us.” 

She nods, understanding, and turns her attention to the woman. “Let me help you up,” Brienne says, bending and offering her hands. 

“Is he... alive?” the woman asks, her eyes trained on her husband. 

Jaime kneels beside the man and feels for a pulse. He nods and gingerly searches the man’s body for wounds, finding none. 

“They hit him in the head,” the woman explains tearfully. 

Jarrad and Lyle barrel upon the scene on foot, surveying the carnage. They look to Jaime for instruction and he says, “Help me get him up,” as he cradles the back of the injured man’s head. 

* 

The couple refuses further help, but Jaime and Brienne do not immediately return to camp. 

They kneel at river’s edge and wash the blood from their hands and faces. Jaime keeps watch when she removes her tunic to wet it, trying to soak the stains out of the material. He studies her from behind, watching the muscles in her back as she wrings the water out of her shirt. He thinks about the strength and skill Brienne displayed and can see the type of warrior she would be in another life – a life without a husband and land and a castle. 

Jaime watches as she sits on the ground, her knees drawn to her chest, her wet tunic bunched at her side. Forgotten about. She is shivering and he rushes, dropping to his knees beside her, drawing his arm around her. “Brienne?” 

“I killed a man,” she states quietly. 

He rubs her bare back. “You defended a woman. You protected an innocent child.” 

She tilts her head to look at him. Her eyes are red-rimmed from crying, but she manages a slight smile - proud but restrained in the face of her unease. 

* 

As a child, Brienne pretended to rescue maids – and even young lords – from evil men. She spent hours ignoring her septa in favor of striking down imaginary opponents. She felt strong and noble, but killing an invisible man was clean. It was easy to forget. 

There are times Brienne’s mind calls up the sound of her sword slicing a man open, and she feels his blood spray her face and can see it smeared across the front of her tunic. She is shocked by how quickly it happened from start to finish – coming upon the scene and soon three dead bodies on the ground. One by her hand. She has to take a deep breath and replace the memories with an image of the young man and woman, alive and holding their child because of what she and Jaime did. 

She is preoccupied by remembering and trying to forget. Enough that weeks later, as Brienne stands in a metal tub washing herself, she can’t recall the last time she had her moon’s blood. _Has it been a matter of days?_ she wonders. _Weeks? Have I bled since we left Winterfell?_

Brienne splashes water over the sides of the tub as she climbs out. She grabs her tunic from the floor and pulls it over her head, the fabric clinging to her wet skin. “Jaime!” she calls out. 

He bursts through the door to their room at the inn. “What happened?” he asks, alarmed. 

She shakes her head. “Nothing. I mean, I don’t know. Jaime.” 

“Brienne?” 

She laughs, bites her lip, shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “I lost track of time,” she begins, “so I cannot be certain. But I don’t remember the last time I bled.” 

Her meaning does not register immediately. He stares, confused, until suddenly his eyes widen. He pales then brightens. “You’re with child?” Jaime wonders aloud. 

“I don’t know. I don’t feel different. I don’t-” 

Jaime rushes across the room and nearly throws himself at her, his arms locked tight around her waist. 

“I may not be,” Brienne warns him. 

“But if you are,” he says, never completing the thought. He frames her face with his hands, smiling as he pulls her into a tight embrace. 

* 

The caravan rolls into the westerlands, stops at Golden Tooth for a night, and soon Jaime can see home in the distance. To his surprise, the faint outline of the rock against a red sunrise inspires delight instead of dread. “Not much longer,” he tells Brienne, climbing back into the carriage after stopping to feed the horses. 

“Let’s not tell your father anything,” she says. 

He squints. 

“About the...” Her hand presses to her flat stomach. 

Jaime smiles. “Good idea. It would please him far too much.” He enjoys the idea of parading around the castle with such a fine secret, denying his father the pleasure of it. 

Brienne rolls her eyes. That is not why she wants to refrain from mentioning the possibility of her pregnancy. They agreed not to jump to conclusions until another month had passed and even then, until she consulted a Maester. “Jaime, we don’t know for sure. I’m feeling unwell today. As I do in the days before I bleed.” 

“I'm being hopeful,” he tells Brienne, kissing her cheek as his hand slips beneath hers to cover her belly. 

* 

Tywin is waiting just beyond the gate. He has the posture of a soldier and the scowl of a father perpetually disappointed in his son. The look only worsens when Jaime and Brienne step out of the carriage looking like two Northerners – him with a beard and much longer hair, her wearing a shawl. His eyes home in on her torso, pointedly taking note that she is not swollen with child. 

“Father,” Jaime greets him. “Has something happened? Your ravens were increasingly-” 

“Casterly Rock is hosting a small council meeting and your King and Queen will be arriving here soon,” Tywin states. He turns and leaves them without further explanation. 

Jaime’s throat closes and he swallows against the constriction. He turns his head to Brienne. She does not look at him, but in profile he can see she is stricken by the news. “Bri-” 

She walks ahead of him through the doorway. 

* 

Jaime enters the bedchamber, looking for Brienne. His heart sinks when he sees her shadow moving behind the curtain she had constructed before they left for Winterfell. “Are you hungry?” he asks. 

There is a long stretch of silence before she steps out from behind the curtain and answers him. “No.” 

“Should I have wine brought to our rooms?” 

Brienne shakes her head, another no. 

“A bath?” he asks. 

She shakes her head. 

Jaime curses his father and the small council and Cersei most of all. He watches Brienne wander the room, extinguishing the flames on the candles, darkening the room until the fire in the hearth is the only source of light. “Brienne,” he whispers. 

She pauses where she stands beside the bed. “It’s fine, Jaime,” she tells him, her voice needlessly loud. Harsh in the intimate, dark space. Brienne sighs and turns toward him, her voice softer. “I’m tired. Can we go to sleep and talk about everything in the morning?” 

He nods and watches as she settles on the bed, under the covers. He undresses down to his smallclothes and stands by the hearth, remembering the constant flames burning in their room at Winterfell. Remembering the tenderness and passion. 

“Jaime?” Brienne whispers. 

He turns away from the fire. 

“Are you coming to bed?” 

He breathes for the first time since learning his sister is on her way to Casterly Rock. He answers by crossing to his side of the bed and nestling beside Brienne, grateful for the way she welcomes his arms around her. 

* 

There is no sleep to be found. His body is comfortable, pressed against the warmth of his wife, but Jaime’s mind races. He was a prisoner the last time he saw Cersei. The only threat to her claim over him was the cell he called home, and not even three stone walls and a shield of metal bars could keep them apart. Not even a King. 

He is certain Cersei believes his marriage to Brienne is merely part of his sentence. Political and a punishment. The union, and hers to Robert, and a war and years on opposite sides of the world, mean nothing to Cersei and everything to him. 

Jaime carefully disentangles from Brienne. He sits up against the wall. There was a time being separated from his sister was a great source of anguish, but the longer he was forced apart from her, the more Jaime came to see what a poison she was. She preferred him to spend his life underground in a cell than to be free and away from her. 

Faint light seeps in through the partially closed shutters and Jaime looks down at Brienne’s face in soft repose against her pillow. “I’m sorry,” he whispers – sorry for Cersei’s intrusion, sorry they do not have the freedom to live where they choose. He wants to wake her and say that Cersei is a weak, shallow woman while Brienne is strong and trustworthy. A lady and a warrior. 

Brienne stirs beside him. She rolls onto her side, her back to him. She has kicked the blankets to the foot of the bed and Jaime’s eyes drift downward to her bare legs. He sucks in a gasp of breath at the sight of a small circle of blood on the bed, and his heart sinks when he sees a corresponding stain on her smallclothes. It is not an alarming amount of blood and likely means Brienne was never pregnant in the first place. But it still feels like a loss, and Jaime knows that reality will only cause her more pain, make her feel more inferior to Cersei. He wants to let Brienne sleep, let her go a bit longer with the hope of a child – their child – growing in her belly. 

Beside him, she murmurs and yawns and feels damp between her legs. Her body stiffens. She holds her breath. 

“Brienne,” he says. 

She maneuvers onto her back and sits up. She looks down at the small stain. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. 

Jaime reaches for her. “You have nothing to apologize for!” 

“I was wrong. I lost track of time. I should have never said anything about it.” 

He shakes his head. “Stop. You did nothing wrong. It means something to me, Brienne, that you were excited at the possibility. That you shared it with me.” 

Brienne opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted by a knock at the door. She pulls the blankets up to her waist and calls out, “You may enter.” 

One of her handmaidens opens the door, keeping her eyes to the ground when she says, “My lady, I’ve been sent to wake you. The King and Queen’s arrival is imminent.” 

Jaime squeezes Brienne’s hand. 

“Thank you,” Brienne says, her voice shaky as she dismisses the girl. 

“I can tell father you’re not feeling well,” Jaime suggests. 

Brienne shakes her head. She thinks about their time in the North, of overcoming her fears to be intimate with Jaime. Riding a horse into the woods and slashing a man from shoulder to hip with her sword. She can face yet another fear, another opponent. “No,” she says. “I’ll wash and send someone to clean the bed.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King and Queen arrive at Casterly Rock.

The linens are stripped from the bed and taken to the laundry with the stained smallclothes. Brienne bathes quickly and intends to dress in her standard wardrobe of breeches and a tunic. She is distracted by the realization the dress she wore to Robb Stark’s wedding is still folded in the trunk. She lifts the lid, eyes grazing the garment – red silk and golden fur, a hint of the brocade of the bodice. 

Brienne lets go of the lid and it clamps shut. She will not stand in front of her own home wearing a dress to appease the Queen, or to compete with her. It is a contest she cannot win; Cersei is regal and has soft, long hair and slight, feminine features. The Queen wears _gowns_ with layered skirts – silk and velvet and lace and more silk. But the breeches and tunic Brienne intends to wear look faded and filthy – unbecoming of the Lady of Casterly Rock. If she knew nothing of the history between Jaime and his sister, she would be dressing to honor their royal visitors. 

On the other side of the room, the handmaiden watches through the corner of her eye. She stammers and finally manages, “My lady, may I make a suggestion?” 

Brienne is silent and still for a long stretch of time before she responds with one nod of her head. 

The young girl hurries across the room. She opens the wardrobe and reaches to the back, removing what is immediately recognizable as a dress. 

“I’d rather not wear that,” Brienne tells her. 

“Yes, my lady,” the handmaiden says, reversing her steps to hang it up again. 

Brienne sighs. “Wait.” The girl holds the garment delicately, but it is not a delicate garment. There are no laces up the back, no silk, no jewels. It is a rich, Lannister red – the perfect shade if Brienne should happen to bleed through the rag folded between her legs. “I’d like to try it on.” 

“Yes, my lady,” she smiles, eager. She drags a chair across the room and stands on the seat, needing the height to help Brienne’s arms into the sleeves and the dress over her head. 

The hem reaches nearly to the floor. The sleeves are long and widen toward the wrist. Although the round neckline is modest, it reveals the expanse of Brienne’s collarbone. But it hangs loosely, like a sack, around her frame. 

The girl dashes to the other side of the room to retrieve Brienne’s scabbard and sword. “Try this.” 

Brienne fastens the leather belt around her hips. The weight of it pulls the fabric down, tightening it around her waist and giving shape where there was none. It is simple, but striking with her sword hanging from her hip. She feels womanly and strong and graceful and commanding. She feels ready. Almost. 

“Is there something else, my lady?” the girls asks. 

Brienne nods as she moves to sit down in the chair. She lifts a hand to the back of her head, combing her fingers through her hair. Left unattended in the North and on the road, it grew longer in the back and around her face; she can tuck it behind her ears. But it’s not the way she prefers to keep it. “My hair,” she says. “It should be shorter.” 

* 

Jaime is drawn to the kitchens by the fragrance of warm bread, but he is scolded and sent away with only an apple. It reminds him of being a child and plotting with Cersei to steal lemon cakes and figs. His stomach drops at the idea of being in their childhood home, together, for the first time in years. 

He leans against the wall, tossing the apple from palm to palm. It’s easy for Jaime when they are separated by rivers and roads and kingdoms – easy to resist, to put her far out of his mind and heart. He fears being in such close proximity to her and the shared memories of their youth, but even more than that, he worries for Brienne. It’s not likely the years have changed Cersei for the better. His sister will not be kind to his wife, and the Queen is arriving with a child in her arms – salt in the wound. 

Jaime startles at the sound of Brienne’s voice calling his name. His demeanor softens as his eyes take in the sight of her. He would hardly say she is wearing a dress, but rather a garment that suits _her_ , and Brienne’s hair looks the way he always remembers. 

“Were you banished?” she asks, pointing to the closed door. She can hear the bustle of the women working to prepare a feast. She sniffs the air and guesses, “Fish stew?” 

Jaime confirms with a nod. 

“Walk with me?” she asks. 

He nods again and falls into step beside her. “You look lovely. How are you feeling?” he asks. 

“Fine. Better.” 

Jaime grasps her hand and says, “I don’t want you to be discouraged by not-” 

“That is not what I wanted to discuss with you.” 

“Oh,” he says, letting go of her hand and standing still. 

Brienne turns to face him. She plucks the apple from his hand and shines the red skin on the sleeve of her dress. She takes a bite, earning a smile from Jaime. 

“You wanted to steal my apple?” 

She shakes her head, handing it back. “No. I wanted to ask... are you okay, Jaime?” 

“Of course. I was excited, yes, but we don’t need to be in a hurry to have a child, Brienne. We’ll have-” 

“No, that’s not what I was asking about.” 

Jaime looks at her, puzzled. 

“I know you have not seen your sister since before we were married. How do you feel about Cersei and King Robert coming to visit?” 

His chest swells – with gratitude and a sense of disbelief. With love. Brienne is more concerned about him than she is how Cersei’s presence will impact her, and Jaime is not accustomed to having his feelings taken into considering so deeply. Knowing they are equally concerned for one another opens his mind to what his heart and body have known for quite some time. “I love you,” he says. 

Brienne blinks. She stumbles back, her knees weakened, and is glad to have been standing near enough to the wall that it catches her and holds her upright. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jaime tells her, taking a step forward, closer. He lifts his hands to frame her face. 

She manages to nod her head, an unspoken _thank you_ for having her silence forgiven. Brienne has only ever felt love for her father and the faded memory of her mother. The idea of the siblings she never had. Sword fighting and horse riding and knighthood. She long ago put aside the notion of ever feeling romantic love, seeing marriage as only a duty. She hasn’t given a name to the way she’s felt about Jaime since leaving Casterly Rock for Winterfell, but what could it be if not love? 

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat followed by, “Ser Jaime?” 

Jaime drops his arms to his sides and moves away from her. “Braedon,” he replies. 

“Your father sent me to find you and Lady Brienne. The King’s caravan is approaching the gate.” 

“Thank you, Braedon. Please go and tell my father we are on the way.” 

The young man nods and hurries away. Brienne begins to follow in his wake, but Jaime reaches out and catches her hand. He stands in front of her and hooks his thumbs around her leather belt, guiding her back against the wall. “Brienne,” he begins, “my sister is not a kind woman.” 

“I’ve heard stories,” she says. 

“It’s different, though, when her malice is directed at... you. I know you are strong, but-” 

“Jaime,” Brienne interrupts, “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve been the source of other people’s malice before. There is nothing your sister can say that I haven’t already heard.” 

He wishes that were true, but he knows Cersei better than anyone in the world. “All I’m saying, Brienne, is that nothing pleases her more than _seeing_ the pain she has inflicted.” 

Brienne nods, understanding – don't let her see how much it hurts. “Thank you, Jaime. We should go.” 

“There is one more thing,” he tells her. 

“What?” she asks, but the word dissolves on her tongue when Jaime closes the gap between their bodies and presses his lips to hers. Brienne loses her sense of time and place; there is no clatter coming from the kitchens, no smell of stew and bread, no urgent matter awaiting them. She is surrounded by Jaime, by the smell and taste of him and the heady feel of his tongue sliding against hers. She moans, mournfully, at the loss of his lips when he pulls away. 

Jaime catches his breath. He looks appreciatively and proudly at Brienne’s kiss-swollen lips. She is marked by him, the skin around her mouth scratched red by his beard. He straightens the belt around her waist and takes hold of her hand. “Ready?” he asks. 

* 

Tywin glares as Jaime and Brienne join the household outside, tardy and giddy and grinning mischievously. 

The caravan winds its way through the gate and down the path. Each carriage is flanked by two men on horseback, the flag with the Baratheon sigil high above their heads. When all have come to a stop, one man in armor dismounts his horse to announce the King and Queen. 

Robert is the first to emerge, nearly tumbling down to the ground. He masks his drunkenness as he always has, disguising it as general ribaldry and a slight imbalance due to his size. 

Jaime squeezes Brienne’s hand and scoots even closer to her side in anticipation of their first glimpse of Cersei. He first sees the crown of his sister’s head peeking through the carriage door as she bends to make her exit. Slowly, she comes into full view, and Jaime blanches at the sight of her wearing a dress the same shade as Brienne’s. 

The Queen’s dress has a hooped skirt – layers of red brocade and silk. The bodice is cinched tight at her waist, marked by a pattern of gold ribbon tied in a bow at the center. Thicker swatches of the same gold line the hem of the skirt and the sleeves and, most noticeably, the low neckline. Cersei’s breasts, swollen with milk, nearly spill out of the fabric. She is followed by one of her handmaidens, and the young girl cradles the baby in her arms. 

Cersei approaches Jaime, her eyes locked on him. “Dear brother,” she says, offering her hand to be kissed. 

Jaime winces. He tightens his grip on Brienne’s hand while lifting the other to just barely cup Cersei’s. He bends to brush a kiss across his sister’s knuckles, but it is so quick that he knows she mostly felt the scratch of his beard. 

“What is that monstrosity covering your handsome face?” Cersei asks, taking note of the way Jaime flinches when she reaches up to stroke his cheek. 

He clears his throat and responds, “We spent time in the North recently. It is armor against the chill.” 

“Well, brother, it is not cold here.” Cersei pauses. Her eyes never stray from Jaime’s face even as she asks, “Is this your _wife_?” 

Jaime lets go of Brienne’s hand only so that he may put his arm around her back, his fingers clasped tightly at her hip. “Yes, this is my _wife_ , Brienne.” 

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, your grace,” Brienne says, offering something that is partly a curtsy and partly a bow. 

The corners of Cersei’s lips twitch into an amused grin. She looks Brienne up and down. “I heard you were... _tall_ , but your... _height_ surpasses my imagination.” 

Brienne looks over the Queen’s shoulder when the baby makes a soft sound. 

Without looking back, Cersei says, “Yes, that is my daughter. Joanna.” 

Jaime is stricken; a daughter named for their mother has always been his dream. One he never thought possible until recently. 

Cersei turns and takes the infant from her handmaiden, and it is then Jaime and Brienne can see the servant-girl wears a dress that, while the color is a sallow yellow, is nearly identical to the style of Brienne’s. The idea Lady Lannister dresses like a servant brings an obvious delight to Cersei. 

“She is beautiful,” Brienne says of the child. 

There is a commotion from the caravan before anything further can be said, and soon Jaime realizes another member of the family is reunited with them. “Tyrion!” he shouts, brushing past Cersei, pulling Brienne with him. 

“Jaime!” Tyrion exclaims, throwing his arms up, spilling wine from a goblet. He looks inside the now empty vessel and shrugs, handing it off to the nearest person. 

“Father didn’t say you were coming,” Jaime tells him. 

Tyrion smiles. “Father didn’t know I was coming.” He looks at Brienne, exaggerating how far he has to tilt his head back to see her face. He winks and says, “Married life looks to be treating the two of you well.” 

“I have no complaints,” Jaime says. 

Brienne blushes and clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. 

Jaime’s grip around her waist tightens and he looks down at his brother, conveying a request with his eyes – please stay, please stay right here with us. 

“Please tell me there is plenty of wine at Casterly Rock?” Tyrion asks. 

“Of course,” Jaime tells him. “Shall we three go and enjoy some before the feast?” 

* 

The feast is crowded and loud, several members of the small council having arrived in time to take part. 

Brienne works up the courage to cross the room and ask to hold baby Joanna, but before she makes it, Cersei sends the infant away with her handmaiden. She turns to leave but is trapped by the sound of the Queen calling for her above the overlapping voices and music. 

“Yes, your grace?” Brienne asks. 

Across the room, Jaime does a double take when he spots the two women in red through the corner of his eye. He abandons his conversation and pushes through the crowd, trying to reach them before any damage can be done. 

“I apologize for not bringing a belated wedding gift for you and my beloved brother,” Cersei says. “I hope you can try to understand that being a mother has taken up most of my time and focus.” 

“Of course,” Brienne replies. 

“I have yet to see any little ones here.” 

Brienne, solemn, shakes her head. 

“Well, if you give my brother children, I hope the first is a boy. It’s a terrible disappointment when the firstborn is a girl,” Cersei says, making a face as though she’s tasted something foul. 

Several feet away, Jaime is intercepted by his father. He watches over the man’s shoulder, trying to determine from the look on his wife’s face how horribly his sister is treating her. 

* 

The first days with the King and Queen are, to Jaime’s relief, mostly uneventful. His sister is bogged down by her duties and rarely seen. He and Brienne keep to their rooms as much as possible, drinking wine with Tyrion and fascinating him with stories about their time at Winterfell. 

"I do wish I had been there to see it all,” Tyrion says, sitting on the floor, the fire crackling behind him. He picks up a decanter of wine and, turning it over to pour, finds it empty. 

Jaime sighs. “I’ll go for more,” he says, kissing the top of Brienne’s head as he rises from his seat. 

Left alone, Brienne and Tyrion are quiet – unable to use the wine to alleviate the silence. 

Emboldened by the alcohol, Brienne says, “I don’t like how your sister speaks of her child.” 

Tyrion’s eyes widen, impressed by her candor. “What makes you say that?” he asks, knowing full well what she is speaking of. 

“She belittles the child for having been born a girl. I swear, if Jaime and I had a son the same age she would want to swap them out. If I asked nicely enough, I feel she would leave the baby here with us.” 

Tyrion’s eyes darken. He agrees with Brienne’s assessment. “If you’re worried about Joanna’s well-being, don’t. I won’t let anything happen to the child.” He pauses, looking away for a moment. “I know what it’s like to be born wrong.” 

Brienne offers him a tight, empathetic smile. She changes the subject, and after a while Tyrion makes note of how long Jaime has been gone. He yawns behind his hand and begins to stand from the floor. “I shall consider it a sign that Jaime hasn’t returned with the wine,” he says, “and take my leave. It is rather late.” 

She looks to the door, feeling the long absence of her husband, and says, “Yes, it is.” 

* 

Cersei calls out to him from the shadows and the decanter slips from Jaime’s hand, shattering at his feet. The wine puddles on the floor, absorbing into the stone until it looks like a long-forgotten blood stain. He bends his knees as she steps into the light from the overhead lantern. “Leave it,” she orders, and when Jaime begins to sort the largest shards into a pile, Cersei adds, “You employ servants to clean that up, Jaime.” 

He lifts his head to glare at her, nicking the pad of his thumb on a piece of glass. “Fuck,” he hisses, biting his thumb between his teeth, pressing his tongue to the wound. 

“Here, let me see,” Cersei says, carelessly crushing the glass beneath her shoes, making the mess worse. 

Jaime stumbles to avoid her touch. He rises up and backward, making a fist, tucking his thumb beneath his fingers. 

“You’re behaving as though you’re afraid of me, brother.” 

He swallows, his throat tight and dry. “No,” he disagrees. “But it is late and my wife is waiting for me. If you need help finding your way back to-” 

Cersei interrupts him with a peal of laughter. At the offended look on his face, she shakes her head, composing herself. “I apologize, Jaime,” she tells him, insincere and unable to refrain from smiling. “But every time you refer to that cow as your wife, I can’t help but be amused. How do you say it with a straight face?” 

He wonders if Cersei can see the details of his expression in the dim hallway – narrowed eyes, clenched teeth, and jaw twitching in barely repressed rage. “I don’t find it funny,” Jaime tells her. 

She laughs – cackles – at that. She takes several steps closer. “You are quite good at pretending. I bet that beast of a woman even believes you love her.” Cersei pauses to visibly shudder. “But in the bedroom?” She reaches out, cupping his crotch as she asks, “Can you even get hard for her?” 

Jaime’s fingers close around his sister’s wrist and he pries her hand away. 

“You don’t have to pretend with me, brother,” she whispers, advancing until Jaime’s back is against the wall. She leaves no space between them, her body slowly pinning him in place – one foot is planted between his and he can feel the shape of her slender legs through the skirt of her dress, her hips grind against his, her breasts smashed to his chest. “You must have to think of me,” Cersei goes on. Her fingers gather the fabric of his tunic, pulling the hem out from under his breeches. “I think of you when I’m with Robert. I have to. It’s the-” 

Jaime slips his hands between them and pushes against her stomach, shoving Cersei as he darts several feet away. He stares at his sister. Half of her face is in shadow but there is no mistaking the wrath directed at him. He will have to pay for rejecting her, and knowing Cersei, it will be Brienne that is made to suffer in his place. 

Worried for his wife, Jaime makes an impulsive and immediately regrettable decision when he whispers, “We cannot be seen like this.” 

Cersei’s features soften. “There is no one around.” 

“Father has eyes everywhere,” Jaime tells her. “On me. To make certain I... honor the vows of my marriage.” 

She grins, seemingly satisfied by the idea that Jaime could only reject her affections to convince their father he is, in fact, bedding his wife and working to produce an heir. Not distracted by anyone else. 

He is grateful for a noise in the distance, a threat to the cloak of privacy Cersei erroneously believes follows them everywhere. “I must go,” he says. He turns and runs, giving her no time to respond. 

* 

Brienne hears the door squeak open and what is either a sigh of disappointment or relief from Jaime. She pretends to be asleep as he shuffles across the room, extinguishing several more candle flames to darken the room. She feels a dip in the bed as Jaime joins her under the covers. 

He whispers, “Brienne?” 

She remains still for a moment, her silence meant to punish him for disappearing. But when Jaime whispers her name again, she gives up her rather childish ruse and rolls over to face him. 

Jaime smiles. “I’m sorry,” he tells her. 

Brienne murmurs, sleepily absolving him of any wrongdoing. She burrows closer to him, her forehead tucked against his chest and her arm drawn tightly around him. She feels him move, embracing her and hooking his leg over hers. The warm, safe feeling is tarnished when Brienne takes a deep breath and catches subtle notes of musk and jasmine clinging to Jaime’s tunic. _Cersei._

He feels her stiffen. “Brienne?” 

There is a painfully long pause before she answers. “I’m awake.” 

Jaime shifts until they are side by side, eye to eye. “There is something you need to know. I was delayed by Cersei. She... cornered me. I dropped the wine. I was bleeding. She... trapped me there.” 

She thinks he looks distant, his eyes suddenly vacant. “Jaime,” Brienne says, lifting her hand to gently stroke the wiry hairs covering his cheek. 

He gasps, snapping back to the moment. “I was worried she would hurt you.” 

“Why? What happened?” 

Jaime shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Cersei thinks she has a claim over me. You are a threat to that. I had to make her think I would be hers if it weren’t for father and his spies. Keeping tabs on me.” He squeezes his eyes shut, ashamed. “I’m so sorry. Nothing happened. Nothing is going to happen.” He opens his eyes. “Do you believe me?” 

Brienne nods her head. She pulls him closer, kissing his forehead, carding her fingers through his hair. She assures him and soothes him, all the while breathing in jasmine and wondering. Wondering if Jaime is lying. Wondering if the truth even matters; is Cersei’s power over Jaime too strong to keep them apart?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne spar in the training yard and "spar" in the bedroom. Cersei continues to cause trouble.

Jaime rolls onto his back and stretches his arm across the bed, expecting to come into contact with the warmth of Brienne – a bare arm peeking out from under the covers or the curve of her hip. He feels only the cold, empty space of her side of the bed. His eyes snap open, alarmed, thinking the worst. Thinking _Cersei_. 

Scrambling to his feet, Jaime begins to dress. He steps into his boots and hops on one foot while he ties the laces of the other. His eyes catch sight of something folded over the back of a chair. He grabs a handful of the material and recognizes it as the shift Brienne slept in. He heaves a sigh of relief, and collapses into a seated position on the foot of the bed. Clutching the shift to his face, he inhales the scent that clings to it. 

Jaime catches his breath and realizes his tunic is on backwards. He laughs thinking of what Brienne would have to say about it. He stands, fixes his shirt, and walks to the window. Peeling back the heavy drape, Jaime sees the sun is only beginning to pierce the darkness – a smear of gold spreading slowly over the horizon. He leaves the bedroom, taking a lantern to light his way through the dark halls of the keep. 

Brienne is not in the solar and he doesn’t find her watching the sunrise from any of the balconies. Jaime searches towers and the kitchens and the Great Hall when he realizes he’s always known where she is. 

* 

By the time Jaime descends the hill to the training yard, the sun is much higher in the sky. Casterly Rock is surrounded by lavender morning mist and he finds Brienne shrouded in it. She is lunging and chopping at the air with her sword. He can tell she has been at it for some time; pieces of the straw torso built around the pell litter the ground, a thick lock of hair is matted across her forehead by sweat, and one side of her tunic hangs loosely over the hem of her breeches. 

Brienne takes note of his appearance but follows through with an overhead strike, slicing her imaginary opponent down the middle. She lets go of her weapon and rakes her fingers through her hair, pushing the wet strands away from her eyes. 

“Good morning,” Jaime greets her. 

She answers with a strained breath, winded from her work. 

“I woke and you were gone. I was worried.” 

“No reason to be,” Brienne says, dragging the back of her hand across the beads of sweat that glisten on her forehead. 

Jaime is aware she has yet to make eye contact with him, her gaze averted to the ground or the sky or anywhere but his face. “Well,” he says in his defense, “it’s quite odd to go to the training yard alone before the break of dawn.” 

“I don’t find it odd at all.” 

He takes up a practice sword of his own. “Spar with me?” 

“I was about to go back inside, actually,” Brienne tells him, looking to where the castle looms above the hilltop. 

Jaime bites the inside of his cheek. He lets her take three steps before interrupting her exit. “Brienne, are you angry with me? About what I told you last night?” he asks carefully, and she stops and he hears a sharp intake of breath. 

She pivots quickly and meets his gaze for the first time. “Not at all.” 

He feels his concern give way to frustration. Jaime is certain he did the right thing, telling Brienne why he never returned with the wine. He decides her behavior is childish and says, “Really? That is not what the tone of your voice is saying.” 

Brienne clenches her teeth. 

“And your eyes. And the way-” 

“Fine,” she says. “Let’s spar if it will quiet your mouth.” 

Jaime watches her march back to where she’d dropped her blunt sword. He joins her on the dirt and takes the proper stance. “Would you rather I have said nothing about what happened with Cersei?” 

She surprises him with an upward thrust. 

He barely avoids the hit, wobbling on his heels. He looks at her with wounded eyes. 

“If you would stop running your mouth and pay-” 

Jaime lunges at Brienne and she parries the attack. 

Brienne lands a blow on Jaime’s bicep and he sucks in a hiss of breath through his teeth at the impact. He is still recovering from the sting when she swings low and makes brutal contact with his thigh. The hit weakens his knees and he drops to the ground. “Gods, Brienne,” Jaime says, quickly getting back to his feet. 

She shrugs her shoulder as if it say _this is what happens when you ask to spar with me._

Jaime has not been putting his full strength into his attacks, and Brienne can see the moment he decides to change that. Neither of them speaks again. They only move about the yard, chasing and retreating. Striking and slashing. Lunging and parrying. Sweating and grunting. 

Every time her sword taps his or strikes his body, Brienne is fighting back against her grief at not being pregnant and the isolation she feels being back on Casterly Rock instead of surrounded by the Stark children. She is pummeling Cersei and fighting the way the Queen threatens their happiness. She is fighting how angry she is that Cersei can make her worry about such trivial things as not being pretty enough. 

Brienne tosses her sword to the ground and Jaime stops short of hitting her. “Why did you-” he begins to speak, but she lunges at him – defenseless – and frames his face with her hands. She tilts her head, capturing his lips in a rough, searing kiss. 

Jaime’s grip on his weapon loosens and the sword lands at their feet. He wraps his arms around Brienne, locking her in his embrace and leaving no space between their bodies. Her hands move, one clasped at the back of his neck and the other pressed to the base of his spine. 

He wants to collapse with Brienne and take her there on the dirt. But the mist has cleared and the household will be awake and wandering the grounds. Jaime murmurs something and she nods. They part with a whimper and join hands, running up the hill and to the mouth of the nearest tunnel. 

The shortcut to their chambers feels like an eternity, and once they are inside the room and the door is barred, they lunge at one another. Their aggression from the training yard is now a fierce passion – sloppy, bruising kisses and hands fumbling with laces. They land sideways on the bed, rolling twice and settling with Brienne beneath him. 

Jaime drags her breeches and smallclothes down to her ankles, yanks at her boots, and discards everything on the floor. He collapses on top of her, shoving his own breeches down his hips enough to free his cock. Her arms and legs wind around him and he pushes into her with one swift thrust. 

The laces of her tunic are loosened and Jaime grasps the material, yanking it down to reveal her breast. He kisses his way from her lips to her chest and opens his mouth around the pebbled flesh. He suckles and Brienne feels his lips and teeth tighten and tighten around her and she bucks her hips to grind against him. Her release is long and loud and Jaime – working to restrain his own pleasure for as long as possible – shudders and moans, the sounds overlapping hers. He spills inside her, his body crumpling against her. They are boneless and breathless, a pile of half-dressed limbs in the middle of the bed. 

Soon, Jaime shifts to the side, keeping one leg hooked around Brienne’s. His fingers draw lazy circles around her exposed nipple, prolonging her pleasure – each touch an aftershock. She moans and her voice is heavy and raspy when she says, “You best stop that, Jaime Lannister.” 

He lets out a grunt of disapproval and slowly, softly glides the pad of his thumb across the taut peak. He stops only to sit up on his knees and roll the hem of her tunic up the length of her torso and over her head. Brienne obliges him, lifting her arms to completely remove her last article of clothing. 

Jaime gazes at her naked body in sharp contrast to his almost fully clothed. He smiles as his fingers explore miles and miles of pale, smooth skin, and he settles beside her to kiss the scars and the old and new bruises that mark her. He finds where her skin is the softest – her inner thighs – and his hand rubs up and up until he feels the dampness between her legs. Brienne lets out a satisfied sigh as Jaime props himself up beside her on his elbow, lifting himself enough to be able to watch her face respond to his ministrations. 

He uses a gentle, teasing touch, but Brienne’s teeth pinch her bottom lip when he deepens the pressure of his fingers. Jaime finds the sensitive nub at the apex of her cunt, and he rubs and rubs until she is squeezing her thighs around his hand and digging her nails into the bed and chanting his name. 

* 

King Robert is seated at the head of the table, his teeth ripping a thick slice of bacon in half. 

Across from him, Cersei rolls her eyes, and beside her sits an irritated Tywin. “Father,” she says, “perhaps someone should check on Jaime. That beast he married could have hurt him.” 

Two seats away, Tyrion lets out a bark of laughter. With all eyes on him he says, “Apologies, but I think our brother would die happy crushed beneath her.” 

Robert nearly chokes on a bite of bacon as he laughs uproariously. He bangs his hand on the table to emphasize his delight, shaking the full chalices and silverware. 

Tywin resists the urge to berate his son when the King so clearly enjoyed the foul humor. Instead he waves Jaime’s squire over from his post near the door and tells Braedon to go and find the Lord and his Lady. 

“Yes, sir,” Braedon replies, taking off. He makes his way to the Lord and Lady’s solar, but his path is blocked by a handmaiden. “Kathryn, please move. I’ve been sent by Sir Tywin to fetch the Lor-” 

“You cannot bother them right now,” she says. 

Braedon narrows his eyes. He dodges the weak barricade of her outstretched arm and jogs toward Jaime and Brienne’s bed chambers. Kathryn is on his heels, whispering harshly for him to stop. He ignores her but stops short of knocking on the door when he hears a long, wild moan come from the other side. At first, he wonders if someone is in pain, but the noises that follow tell him otherwise. “Oh,” he says, backing away. 

“I told you,” Kathryn says, her hand on his back propelling him back down the hallway. 

* 

Brienne is still shivering when Jaime looms above her, licking his lips, looking at her like she is prey. “Jaime, no,” she laughs, turning her head sideways when he leans down to kiss her. His hands move downward but she closes her knees and rotates her hips, tilting away from him. “We must stop,” she says, managing to sit up and vacate the bed. 

He heaves a sigh and watches her naked backside as she crosses the room. 

“We are far too late for breakfast,” Brienne reminds him. She dips her hands in a basin of water to test the temperature and finds it’s been kept rather warm by its proximity to the hearth. “Clean up and we-” 

Jaime interrupts her, appearing behind her. He clasps her hips and rests his cheek against her shoulder blade. “You promise you aren’t cross with me?” he asks. 

She pries his hands away and turns to face him. “I was... processing a lot of different feelings about a lot of different things. I was mostly angry at Cersei and took it out on you.” She doesn’t tell him about smelling the jasmine and worrying he may be defenseless against his sister. 

“I am truly sorry for what happened. Maybe I shouldn’t have said what I did to Cersei, but I fear for your safety, Brienne.” 

She leans forward to drop a quick kiss to his cheek, backing away before Jaime can get his hands on her again. “Let’s not give it another word. Another thought.” 

* 

The Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock arrive to breakfast to find a platter of cold bacon, a half-eaten loaf of brown bread, and several annoyed faces. “I apologize,” Jaime says, pulling a chair away from the table for Brienne and taking his seat beside her. “We spent the morning sparring.” 

Cersei stares at them. She saw the look on young Braedon’s face when he returned and stuttered through a report of his lord’s whereabouts. She sees the pink in Jaime and Brienne’s cheeks and clenches her hands into fists under the table. 

“Was there a victor?” Tyrion asks with a smirk. “Or did you both win?” 

Jaime hesitates before responding. “I would say Brienne bested me.” 

“More than once?” Tyrion asks. 

Jaime purses his lips to keep from smiling and when he casts a quick glance at Brienne, he can see her flushed cheeks darkening with embarrassment. 

Tywin puts an end to the back and forth by beckoning for a fresh bowl of berries. 

* 

The mid-afternoon air is cool and fragrant, carrying the clean salt-smell of the sea and the flowers freshly planted around the grounds. Jaime wandered out of a meeting – the members of the small council have begun to descend on Casterly Rock – and onto the nearest parapet, where he closes his eyes and recalls his morning. It had a harsh start but turned sweet. He can still taste Brienne and heat pricks the back of his neck as he thinks about the sounds he drew from her and the way she writhed beneath him and beside him and, once, above him. 

At first, Jaime thinks his name being called is a memory. He hears it spoken in Brienne’s voice, but when he suddenly feels a hand heavy on his shoulder, he turns to see Cersei behind him. He has to remind himself of the lie he told the night before and forces a smile. “Cersei. I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.” 

She moves her hand from his shoulder to his elbow, trailing her fingers along his forearm and finally taking hold of his hand. She reaches her other hand up to cup his chin. “I hoped when I saw you this morning you would have shaved this wretched mess from your face,” she says. 

Jaime knows her hatred for the beard is because with it, he looks less like her. He looks to be a mere brother and not a twin. Not an extension of herself. Not hers. He almost says _Brienne likes it_ but catches himself and tells her only, “I’ve gotten used to it.” 

Cersei lets go of him and walks to the edge of the parapet, gazing out toward the sea. “Were you truly sparring this morning, Jaime? Is that why you can tolerate being married to such a beast? An opponent at your fingertips.” 

An image flashes behind Jaime’s eyes. He sees himself taking one wide step forward and shoving Cersei over the edge and out of his life for good. It would be so easy to add Queenslayer to his list of bad deeds, and much like when he killed Aerys it would be for the good of innocents. 

“There you two are,” Tywin says from inside, pulling Jaime from his unseemly daydream and rescuing him from any further interaction with Cersei. 

* 

Brienne is expected to graciously greet the arriving members of the small council, but she is banned from the rooms where the men drink and discuss and make plans. She retreats early to chambers and changes into her long, sleeveless shift. She opens the drapes to watch the sunset. She grins and blushes thinking back to the start of the day. 

There was a time being married to Jaime was the last thing she wanted. The notion is absurd as, now, it is the only thing that matters. It is the foundation of everything and led her to the North where she made a friend in Catelyn Stark and awakened her maternal instinct and fell in love with her husband. 

_Yes_ , Brienne thinks, _fell in love_. And now, the idea of losing him to war or death or Cersei is excruciating. She needs to believe what Jaime told her the night before is true, and that he would never willingly go to his sister. 

She hears the door rattle open behind her. She greets Jaime with a smile and says, “I hope it’s alright that I am already dressed for bed?” 

“That is always alright with me,” he replies. 

Brienne shakes her head. “Jaime,” she scolds him. “I meant, I hope there is no occasion for the Lord and Lady to make an appearance tonight?” 

“No, we are safe.” 

She watches him remove his jerkin and unlace the ties that hold his tunic closed tight at his throat. “Here, let me,” Brienne says, her bare feet padding across the floor. 

Jaime stands still as she tugs the hem of his tunic out from under his breeches. He lifts his arms as she peels the garment up his torso, and lets them drop to his sides as she pulls it up and over his head. Their eyes meet as she unties the laces of his breeches and they smile. 

Brienne takes note of the black and blue mark on his bicep and grimaces. 

“What?” he asks. 

She gingerly touches the bruise and says, “I’m sorry.” 

“Forgiven.” 

Brienne presses down on his shoulder, urging Jaime to sit on the edge of the bed. He does, and she kneels before him, hooking her fingers around the waistband of his breeches. She pulls and he lifts up from the bed long enough for her to draw them down to his knees, to his ankles, leaving Jaime in only his smallclothes. She finds the bruise on his thigh and bends to kiss the welted flesh. Brienne’s lips apologize for every mark where her sword struck him, kissing his wrist and along his ribcage. 

She folds her hands over his thighs and looks up at him. “Jaime, I want to tell you something.” 

His face darkens with concern. 

Brienne takes a deep breath and says, “I love you. I do. I’ve known for a while but I didn’t know how to say it and now I don’t want to stop. I love you. I love you, Jaime. I lo-” 

He clasps his hands around her face and muffles her words with the weight of his lips and soft slide of his tongue. He pulls away enough to meet her eyes. “I needed to kiss you, but go on. Please, say it again.” 

She smiles and repeats, “I love you, Jaime Lannister.” 

* 

Cersei tilts her head back and drains the wine from the goblet. She turns around with the intention of ordering the nearest servant to pour more only to realize she is alone. It makes her miss King’s Landing. The only upside to visiting her childhood home was being reunited with Jaime, and depending what she chooses to believe, he or their father has ruined that. 

The tall, ugly woman has ruined it, that she knows for certain. 

“Your grace,” comes a meek voice from behind. 

Cersei turns to see a handmaiden holding Joanna. “What?” 

“I thought you might want to spend time with-” 

“Put the baby down and bring more wine,” Cersei says. 

The girl stammers and begins to lay the infant on the seat of a padded chair. 

“Not here,” Cersei shouts. 

“Yes, your grace,” the girl whispers, carrying Joanna out of the room. 

A moment later Cersei hears footsteps. Without turning she points to where her goblet sits on the table and says, “Pour the wine and leave it all here.” 

“May I stay with it, your grace?” 

She spins around at the unfamiliar male voice. She takes an inventory of the man – dark skin and dark, short hair, yellow shirt cut in a deep V down the center of his chest. “Oberyn Martell,” Cersei says. “Are you lost?” 

He pours wine into the goblet. “I heard the Queen was being made to wait. I won’t stand for that.” His eyes dip down to her chest. 

“There will be none of that,” Cersei tells him. “But I know how you like to play and I have just the thing for you.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei and Oberyn attempt to cause a rift between Lord and Lady Lannister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might be longer than usual. Every time I reached the end, I didn't like where I was leaving the characters. I always meant for this story to have more angst than anything else but I can't seem to be that cruel to them. :) 
> 
> Also, I wrote this one really fast (they possessed me!) and don't have a beta so please forgive any mistakes. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and commenting or leaving kudos - truly appreciate each and every one.

The easternmost garden is reserved for formal gatherings. There are stretches of verdant grass with stone benches and pathways for walking. Brienne knows if she takes the narrow path that runs beneath an archway covered in ivy, she will find herself in a secluded alcove. She longs to chart that course rather than watch the Master of Coin argue with Mace Tyrell. 

Brienne closes her eyes for a beat. She woke feeling nauseous, and the sun and the warm air seem to threaten the feeling to return. She hears the approach of footsteps and prays to see Jaime, but the man standing before her is dark of hair and eyes and skin. She places him immediately as the representative from Dorne, and is struck by how accurate it is to associate him with a snake; he is long and slender, and he slithered – undetected – right up to her. 

“I saw you from across the garden. I consider it a crime that we have not been formally introduced,” he says, propping one foot on the bottom of the five steps leading to the platform where she stands. 

“Brienne Lannister,” she tells him, keeping her hands clasped behind her back. 

He climbs another step, still having to gaze up at her. “Oberyn Martell. It is my pleasure to finally meet you, Lady Brienne.” He pauses, waiting for her to offer a hand to be kissed. When she doesn’t, one corner of his mouth twitches into a grin – accepting the challenge. Oberyn bows his head, reverent, before locking his gaze on her face. “I find these affairs rather boring myself. Would you be so kind as to accompany me on a walk? I get lost easily and when I get lost... I get into trouble.” 

Brienne is silent and expressionless. She is trapped by the railing on three sides of the arbor. She could decline and blame it on feeling unwell, but her duty is to be hospitable to their guests. She can’t see that Jaime has arrived and is looking for her. “Alright,” she replies. 

Oberyn steps aside, making room for her to descend the short set of stairs. He offers his arm but she ignores the gesture. He walks beside her, too close, purposely brushing his hand against hers. As they begin to walk the path leading toward the archway, he is the only one to notice that Jaime is watching from afar. 

* 

Jaime grinds his teeth at the sight of the Dornish prince talking to Brienne. He marches off in their direction until his path is abruptly blocked by Cersei. “Pardon me, sister,” he tells her, watching over her shoulder as Oberyn begins to walk away with his wife in the wrong direction – away from him. “I must go-” 

“Don’t run off so quickly,” Cersei says. She steps aside and reveals her handmaiden holding Joanna. “You’ve hardly had a moment to spend with your niece.” She takes the baby from the young girl. 

He looks at the infant’s face – round, rosy cheeks and a small, heart-shaped mouth. In the natural light of the garden, he decides her skin tone is much darker than he’d expect of a Baratheon babe. “Oh,” Jaime grunts in surprise when Cersei thrusts Joanna toward him. He lifts his arms and cradles her close to his chest. His fingers tenderly stroke the back of her head, soft and dusted with fine, gold hair. 

“She likes you,” Cersei states, drawing a pleased and proud smile from Jaime. “I’m not surprised though. I always knew you would be wonderful with a child.” 

Jaime’s mouth parches. He can feel his sister staring at him, daring him to meet her gaze, but he refuses. They had a conversation once, ages ago, about what to do if Cersei ever found herself pregnant with his child. The overwhelming consensus was that, of course, Jaime could not publicly claim the child but would be his or her father in every other way. He suspects she was pregnant once, while he was imprisoned, for he did not see her over the course of three long moons. When he finally did, she was cagey regarding her whereabouts and seemed rather sad – an emotion he rarely saw from his sister. 

Cersei sends the handmaiden away, whispering a command in the girl’s ear. The moment Jaime tries to hand the baby back, Cersei takes a step away and pretends to hear Robert calling for her. As she moves backward, she says, “The girl will be back in a moment. You’ll be fine holding her right there,” and leaves him with the child. 

His eyes search the garden for Brienne, and when he does not see her, he looks for Oberyn. He whispers a curse, directed at his sister, then feels compelled to look at Joanna and say, “I’m sorry, little one.” 

* 

Brienne had longed to be far away, where the flowers are lush and the only place to sit is a narrow bench tucked among crowded trees and a trellis overgrown with weeds. But being there with Oberyn feels wrong and she regrets accepting his invitation. 

“You were of Tarth before Lannister won your hand?” Oberyn asks as they reach the alcove. 

“Yes,” she answers him. 

“You don’t seem like a young woman who could be wooed by gold. What is it about the Kingslayer that charmed you so?” 

She glares at her companion. “I ask you kindly not to refer to my lord husband that way,” Brienne snaps. “His name is Ser Jaime Lannister. Lord of Casterly Rock and a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

Oberyn concedes to her scolding with a nod. “I apologize, my lady. Was it love at first sight?” 

Of course, her first meeting with Jaime and their first years of marriage were fraught, but a prince from Dorne does not need to know that. He likely already knows that taking her as a bride was Jaime’s punishment, but the joke is now on the King and everyone who wished to sentence him to a life of misery. Everyone who laughed at Jaime’s unfortunate circumstances. “He was the only man in Westeros I could not easily defeat with my sword,” Brienne says. 

Oberyn is pleased by her response. He gestures to the bench and waits to sit until Brienne takes a place at one end. “That does not surprise me, Lady Brienne. You’re not like other women. Other wives.” 

Her head snaps sideways, her eyes stern. “What do you mean by that?” She supposes it could be a remark on her outfit – a high-collared, blue frock and a pair of breeches under the long skirt, or commentary on her unusual height. Whatever it is, she suspects, it is not kind. 

“Relax,” he tells her. “It is a good thing. I meet a lot of weak women who marry the first man to pose the question. And I meet a lot of devious women who marry for riches.” He reaches over and manages to pluck Brienne’s hand from where it rests on her thigh. “Your hands are quite elegant. At first glance your fingers are long and delicate, but,” he says, turning her hand over and rubbing his thumb against the scars and callouses that mark her palms, “I can see you indeed must yield a sword well.” 

Brienne yanks her hand away. She stands and, with a wide gulf between them, says, “For a man who clearly knows I am married to the Lord of Casterly Rock, you are quite...” She doesn’t have the word in her vocabulary. 

Oberyn rises from the bench. “Flirtatious?” he suggests. 

She nods. 

“Where I come from, Lady Brienne, one’s marriage does not stop a man and woman from... connecting.” 

“We are from very different places,” Brienne tells him. “I am going to return to the garden now and find my husband.” 

She marches away from him, glancing back twice to be certain he is not following her. She feels a sense of relief as the sounds of conversation from the men in the garden grows nearer, but Brienne’s chest tightens in discomfort when she dashes through the archway and spots Jaime holding his niece. It feels cruel to begrudge him the moment, and it is unbecoming to be jealous of another woman’s fortune, but something about the scene lodges a pain in the pit of her stomach. 

* 

Night falls on Casterly Rock, quieting the overlapping voices of its many visitors. Jaime and Brienne retire to their chambers after having not spoken much throughout the day, despite each of their numerous attempts to reach the other. 

Jaime sits on the edge of the bed and bends to unlace his boots. “Am I mistaken or did you go for a walk with Oberyn Martell?” he asks. 

Brienne pauses her undressing, only one arm out of its sleeve. She detects something in his tone – anger, or jealousy, perhaps. She turns her back to him as she frees her other arm and lets the garment pool around her ankles. “You are not mistaken,” she replies, kicking the dress aside. Her fingers tug at the laces of her breeches. “He introduced himself and invited me on a walk. I felt it would be ill-mannered as the lady of the house to say no.” 

“Since when do you oblige the request of every man in Westeros?” he asks, rising from the bed, hands on his hips. 

She turns around, her breeches loose around her hips. “Every man in Westeros?” she repeats, incredulous. 

Jaime’s concentration is momentarily stolen by her bare breasts. 

Brienne rolls her eyes. “I was making an effort to be welcoming to our guests. Which is more than I can say for you.” 

His tunic gets caught around his head and he wrestles out of it, throwing it onto the bed. “Pardon?” 

She rolls her breeches down to her knees, to her ankles, and kicks them aside. “You were nowhere to be found. I was alone in the garden a long while, Jaime. The only representative of House Lannister.” 

“When I reached the garden, you were on your way out!” 

“Yes, after I walked around and stood waiting for you. Where were you?” 

The accusation in her question does not escape him. He narrows his eyes, closing the distance between them. “You seem to think you know. Tell me, Brienne, where was I?” 

Her mouth opens as though to shout, but whatever she intended to say dies on her tongue. 

The two of them stand mere inches apart, breathing heavily, naked chests heaving. Instead of launching another loaded question, they lunge forward. Their bodies and mouths crash together. They kiss fiercely, hands groping at flesh and the pesky few remaining articles of clothing between them. 

Jaime bends his knees, dropping to the ground as he drags her smallclothes with him. He opens his mouth against her cunt and she grunts at the needy way he tastes her and the smooth and rough textures of his tongue and beard. He looks up at Brienne while he laps at her wetness and flicks the tip of his tongue against her sensitive flesh. Jaime thinks he could live that way forever – on his knees, gazing up the length of his wife’s torso, his hands cupping her buttocks as he pleasures her. 

If it weren’t for his hands and mouth holding her up, Brienne’s knees would buckle and send her toppling to the floor. She shudders as Jaime’s tongue drives her toward the edge. She latches onto his hair and begins to roll her hips, grinding against him until she comes undone with a guttural cry. Her body crumbles then, and Jaime catches her, letting himself fall back against the floor with Brienne’s weight on top of him. 

She catches her breath before sitting up to straddle him. Lifting her hips, her hand curls around the base of Jaime’s cock and she sinks down. His fingertips dig into her thighs at the overwhelming sensation of being inside her. He watches her through hooded eyes – the blush crawling across her chest, the beads of sweat glittering on her pale skin. Jaime sits up, locking his hands together at the small of her back and taking the taut peak of her right breast between his lips. His hips buck wildly and he suckles greedily and spends himself with a long, deep moan. 

Brienne clasps one hand at the back of his head while the other gently traces the rope of his spine. She feels his breath in warm pulses between her breasts. Sated and sorry for her earlier behavior, she murmurs, “I love you, Jaime.” 

He feels the tickle of her words on the shell of his ear and they tremble through his body. He tightens his arms around her and pulls her with him to the ground, their bodies shifting until their legs are sprawled and her head is cradled on his chest. “I love you,” Jaime whispers. 

After a while, Brienne flips onto her stomach and folds her hands over his chest, resting her chin there. “What happened to us?” she asks. 

Jaime lifts his head to meet her gaze. “I don’t know about you, but I looked at your naked chest and forgot what I’d been yelling about.” 

She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, smiling despite the implication she finds his statement lame. “I mean,” she clarifies, “how is it that we woke up this morning happy and ended up yelling at one another about the viper from Dorne?” 

Jaime rests his head on the floor. The image of his sister’s face flashes before him, and he blanches at the memory of her insulting words toward his wife. “We have a poison in our home,” he says quietly, and he can feel the way Brienne briefly holds her breath. 

She slides up higher, her face level with his. 

“When she’s gone,” he goes on, “everything will be better.” 

Brienne bends to kiss him, tasting herself on his lips and the wiry hairs around his mouth. 

* 

The message delivered to Oberyn with his morning tea is to go at once to the Hall of Heroes. He takes his sword, uncertain if friend or foe awaits him. 

He enters the cold space, crowded with entombed Lannister men and their armor on display. He is surprised to hear Cersei’s voice, only because it seems an odd location for the Queen to arrange a meeting. Oberyn turns around and greets her with a bow and, “Your grace.” The smile on his face and the sparkle in his eye betray his sense of formality. 

She scolds him, “I did not ask you here for my own pleasure. I left you with a... _suggestion_ the last time we spoke.” 

“Ah, yes,” he says. “I had a lovely conversation with Lady Brienne. You were not incorrect. She is rather... proper.” He strokes the bare skin peeking out from the wide-open collar of his tunic. “I quickly realized I will not find myself trapped between her very long legs.” 

Cersei offers a tight smile. She takes a step closer and speaks softly, though no less commanding. “Since when does a virile man from Dorne such as yourself give up after the first try?” 

Oberyn rears back. “Why is it so important to you that I bed your brother’s wife? Are the rumors true?” 

She takes a deep breath and slaps the heel of her hand against his cheek. 

A hand cradled to his sore jaw, he bows his head and says, “I apologize, your grace. I’m simply trying-” 

“You’re simply not listening,” she interrupts. “It’s no secret you blame my father for your sister’s death. Nothing would destroy him more than a bastard in the belly of his golden son’s wife.” 

* 

Jaime and Brienne take their morning meal in their solar, alone. “Are you feeling alright?” he asks, noticing his wife has only torn her bread into pieces and sipped tea. 

She nods and picks up a piece of bread, nibbling at the hard crust. 

“Do I need to fetch the Maester?” 

“No,” Brienne says, “it’s nothing. I think I ate too much plum cake the other evening.” 

Jaime is still chewing a bite of bacon when his squire taps him on the shoulder and bends to whisper in his ear. As Braedon leaves, Jaime pushes his chair away from the table and stands. “My father is asking to see me in the library,” he tells Brienne. He kisses her cheek and steals a thick slice of bacon from her plate. “I’ll find you later. Try to eat something.” He walks backward, his eyes on her until he must exit a doorway. 

Jaime wanders the halls with a bounce in his step, but all mirth drains from his face when he finds Cersei waiting in the library. He shakes his head and says, “I can’t be seen with you.” 

“That is why I chose the library,” she says, dragging a finger across the spines of old tomes stored on the shelves. “There is nothing unsavory about a brother and his sister having a conversation in the room where they both learned to read and write.” 

He folds his arms. “What do you need?” 

“You never answered my question from the other day. On the parapet.” 

Jaime feigns confusion. 

“Sparring,” she reminds him. “It seems to me everyone at the table knew it was a euphemism for fucking that ugly cow. All this time I thought you were taken from me against your will and forced to marry. I thought you were pining for me. I deserve to know the truth, Jaime.” 

He squares his shoulders. “Have you been pining for _me_ , Cersei? I think you took a lover before they unlocked my cell for the last time. And I don’t for one second believe Joanna is Robert’s child.” 

“We are not talking about me.” 

Jaime moves closer to her, anger flaring red in his cheeks. He wants to protect Brienne, but he feels the overwhelming urge to tell Cersei the truth. To send her away and out of his life knowing the only connection left between them is that of blood. “Yes, I was fucking my wife. I love her. More than I’ve ever loved another living soul. Your husband and our father arranging our marriage is the best thing that ever happened to me.” He doesn’t realize he has been advancing toward her until Cersei is up against the bookshelves and his hands are folded over her shoulders and she is gripping handfuls of his tunic at his hips. Jaime is breathing heavy, and he can't help but think how easy it would be to move his hands to her neck. “You will always be my sister, Cersei, but I am not yours and you are not mine.” 

It is silent between them, their eyes locked together. They are both unaware of footsteps approaching, and neither realizes that Brienne stops in the doorway and sees them in a clinch. She clasps a hand to her mouth and runs off, mistaking Jaime’s goodbye to Cersei for a display of passion. 

* 

The soles of her boots clap against the floor as she runs. Her arms pumping at her sides, Brienne feels the small amount of food she consumed churning in her stomach. She skids to a stop at a stairwell, climbing until she reaches a door that opens to a parapet. Clutching her belly, she heaves for an easy breath. 

Her view of Lannisport is blurred by tears. Brienne closes her eyes and when she opens them again, the tears spill down her cheeks. She holds her breath, warring against the emotion, choking on the sobs rather than release them. For him. For her. For the two of them together. 

She doesn’t hear the door open behind her, isn’t aware of the presence of another person until strong fingers close around her shoulder. With a gasp, Brienne turns and sees Oberyn looking at her with concern. 

“Lady Brienne, what has driven you to this state? May I do something to help?” he asks. “Perhaps drive a dagger through the heart of the fool who has hurt you?” 

She wipes the back of her hand across her eyes, under her chin. “There is nothing you can do,” she tells him. Her chin wobbles as she fights back another onslaught of tears. 

Oberyn’s hand flutters against his heart. “It pains me to see you this way.” 

“Please go.” 

“If you truly wish to be alone, Lady Brienne, I shall take my leave. But you should know it is never wise to hold pain in, and I can-” 

“I saw Jaime with _her_ ,” she spits out. “With Cersei.” 

Oberyn takes a step closer. “Oh?” 

Her teeth scrape her bottom lip. She runs her tongue along her teeth – trying to contain the words she wants to say. It would be improper to reveal such salacious details about her husband, although she suspects it’s more widely known than Jaime wants to believe. 

Reaching beneath his doublet, Oberyn removes a square of fabric and shakes it out. He reaches toward Brienne and dabs the cloth beneath her eyes and follows the tracks of her tears. The aubergine color darkens as it absorbs the saltwater. She visibly calms – her shoulders are still, her breath evens, her red-rimmed eyes dry. He takes her hand and holds her palm up, placing the cloth there and closing her fingers around it. He traps her hand between his and says, “Brienne, do not despair. All is not lost. Love is complicated. I suspect you were a maiden when you married Ser Jaime?” 

Her lips part, appalled. But she finds herself confirming with a nod and barely audible, “Yes.” 

Oberyn smiles. The pads of his fingers draw small, slow circles against the underside of Brienne’s wrist. The light pressure is soothing. “A lifetime is a long time to love only one person, don’t you think? We were not built to be chaste creatures. I wonder if you aren’t curious about other men? Other women?” 

She shakes her head. 

“It’s alright if you are. I think you’ll find that when you open yourself to other people, the idea of not being the only woman in Jaime’s bed will hurt far less than it does now.” 

Brienne draws her hand away, holding both behind her back. “I disagree.” 

He briefly pinches the bridge of his nose, finding her to be a far greater challenge than he expected. He intends to reach up and stroke the curve of her cheek and trace along the softness of her bottom lip, but Oberyn takes note of how Brienne’s face pales. Looking closely, he sees beads of sweat along her hairline. “Are you-” 

He never finishes his thought. Brienne’s eyes close and he moves to her side, catching her before she faints and falls to the ground. 

* 

Word reaches Jaime that Brienne fainted on the parapet and Oberyn Martell rushed her to the Maester. He fires off questions – when and where and how is she and what happened – and is angered to learn she has already been seen and is back in their rooms. “How am I only now learning of this?” he shouts to no one in particular. 

He takes off running and bursts through the door to their bed chambers. Jaime sees Brienne in the middle of the bed, reclined against a pile of pillows. A wet rag is draped across her forehead. She opens her eyes but says nothing. “Oh, gods, I was worried sick,” he says, relieved she is in one piece, awake, and not wounded. He climbs onto the bed, sitting beside her legs. “What happened?” He takes her hand but she pulls away from him. “Brienne?” 

She removes the rag and sits up. “Jaime, I need to tell you something.” 

His heart sinks into his stomach. “Gods, Brienne. Are you terribly sick?” 

“I saw you with Cersei.” 

Jaime winces. “I was going to tell you. It was Cersei who called me away, not my father. I didn’t know until I was there,” he says. She doesn’t look at all satisfied by his explanation. “Brienne?” 

“I _saw_ you.” 

“I understand. What do you think you saw?” 

She scoffs at the idea she could have misinterpreted their tense embrace. “Your hands... were on. Her. She was... touching you. You had her pressed against the books.” 

Jaime sighs. “Brienne, did you _hear_ what I said to Cersei?” Off her silence, he tells her, “I was saying goodbye to her. For good. I told her I love you.” He smiles when he sees color return to his wife’s face. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved another. I told Cersei if any harm ever comes to you, I will find her and I will drive my sword straight through her cold heart. I said that if I so much as find out she’s _thought_ about hurting you or-” 

“I’m pregnant,” Brienne blurts out. 

His mouth falls open. 

“I thought I saw something else,” she tells him, a single tear drawing a crooked line along her cheek. 

Jaime blinks. “Wait. What did you say?” 

“I ran off and Oberyn found me and all of a sudden everything went white. I woke up and the Maester was standing beside me. He was pressing against my stomach. He asked me questions and he examined me and he said I was having a baby. I told him I had bled and he said sometimes that happens. Early.” She pauses for a breath. “Oh, Jaime, I’m so sorry I thought the worst.” 

He hardly recalls what she is referring to. Only one thought is in his head and beats in his heart. “You’re having a baby?” he asks, breathless. 

Brienne nods. 

“You’re having a baby.” He smiles ear to ear. “You’re having a baby!” He scoots closer to her, throwing his arms around her. 

She loops her arms around him and cries against the hollow of his shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” he tells her. “Everything is fine. Nothing else matters but you and our baby.” Jaime leans back and urges her to look at him. “Okay, Brienne? Forget about them. Please. Can you?” 

Brienne nods and smiles through her tears. 

Jaime reaches for her again, embracing her and brushing his fingers through her hair. “I love you. It’s only you and me and,” he leans back to splay his fingers against her stomach, “our baby.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guests depart Casterly Rock and the parents-to-be come up with a way to announce the pregnancy on their own terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a quick, transitional chapter into the next big event of the story. Thank you for reading!

XII. 

Jaime sits on the bed beside his wife. He holds the chamber pot on his lap and rubs Brienne’s back while she leans over and wretches into it. “Should I call for the Maester?” he asks. 

She sits back and shakes her head. “He said it’s normal, especially for the first three moons.” 

“ _Three_ moons?” Jaime barks. 

“Or longer,” Brienne tells him. 

He exhales a long breath. “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do for you.” 

“You are,” she tells him. “Doing something. I doubt there is another husband in the Seven Kingdoms sitting beside his wife holding a chamber pot on his lap.” She smiles, and they both share a laugh until her face contorts and she hunches over to empty her stomach – again. 

When Brienne feels better, he sets the pot on the floor and gets up to cross the room. He pours water into a goblet and carries it to her. A knock at the door makes them both groan, and Jaime squeezes her shoulder before leaving her side. 

He opens the door a crack and says, “Braedon,” loud enough for Brienne to know it is not Tywin or, worse, Cersei. 

“Ser Jaime, your father sent me. The last of the guests are readying to leave. He has requested your presence. You and Lady Brienne.” 

Jaime nods and sends the boy away. He seals the door shut and turns to see Brienne standing from the bed. “Be careful,” he says, rushing to her side. 

“I’m alright,” she tells him. “I only need a moment to wash up.” 

“You can stay here. I’ll tell everyone you’re ill. It’s not a lie.” 

Brienne reaches out, resting her hand over Jaime’s heart. “That isn’t necessary.” 

“Well, if you feel yourself getting sick and must vomit in front of our guests, please do so directly on Oberyn Martell’s shoes.” 

She laughs and thinks to herself _no, Cersei’s shoes_ , as she moves to the basin of clean water. She splashes the liquid onto her face and drinks it from her cupped hand. She glances over her shoulder to see Jaime as he slides his arms into the sleeves of a clean tunic. He steals her breath for a moment – handsome and strong and so proud. Concerned for her and the babe. Sweet and loyal and _hers_. To think she ever doubted his devotion breaks her heart. 

“What?” he asks, catching her staring. 

She walks across the room and wraps her arms around him. 

* 

It was decided the previous night they would not share news of the baby until Cersei was not only out of their home and far out of Lannisport, but had vacated the Westerlands entirely. The moment Jaime and Brienne depart their rooms they know it will not happen that way. 

Tywin is waiting for them at the bottom of the staircase. His arms are folded and his eyes are set close together – stern and foreboding. Yet, when they descend the final step, he breaks into an uncharacteristic grin. “I have no doubt the first words on your lips were going to be, ‘Father, we are expecting a child.’ It’s no matter,” he says. “I have poured wine in the goblet of every man, woman, and child on The Rock and sent prayers to The Mother for a healthy pregnancy and birth.” 

“Th-thank you,” Jaime stammers, feeling ambushed. “Of course, you were going to be the first to know. We only just found out ourselves. How did you....?” 

“It’s no secret Brienne fainted. I was waiting for the Maester when she was taken to your rooms.” 

“Of course, you were,” Jaime says. 

Tywin’s grin shrinks to a scowl. “Do not diminish this good news or my joy in the matter.” He looks to Brienne. “Are you feeling well, my dear?” 

“Yes,” she tells him. “Thank you.” Tywin stares at her belly and she lets go of Jaime’s hand to hook her arm around his, burrowing against his side. 

“Very good. We shall send a raven to your father at once.” 

Brienne smiles. “Yes, that will be wo-” 

“Let’s not dawdle,” Tywin says, waving them toward the courtyard. “There are many people who wish to congratulate us.” 

They follow behind Tywin, sharing a look of panic and a hint of amusement. _Us._

* 

The crowd dwindles and Brienne takes a moment to turn away, taking a deep breath and rubbing her temples. She lifts her gaze and sees Oberyn has been watching her. He makes his way over, drawing Jaime’s attention and ire. 

“Lady Brienne,” Oberyn says, “I hope you are feeling much better. I did not have a chance to say this yesterday. Congratulations.” He pauses to look at Jaime and extends his hand. “To you as well, Ser Jaime.” 

Jaime stares at the outstretched hand. He clears his throat and returns the gesture, saying, “Thank you. And thank you for looking out for my wife.” 

Oberyn smiles. He turns his eyes to Brienne and takes a step closer to her. “I am deeply sorry for any discomfort I caused you, Lady Brienne. I was caught up in my distrust of your husband’s family and did not offer the respect you deserve.” 

“Thank you. I appreciate and accept your apology,” Brienne tells him. 

Oberyn leans forward and presses his lips to the corner of Brienne’s mouth. The contact is quick, but deliberate, and draws the reaction he intended as Jaime clenches his hands into fists. “I wish you the best. And if you ever decide singular devotion is not what you prefer, please come and see me in Dorne. My door will always be open to you.” He sees Jaime through the corner of his eye, stepping toward him, and turns to leave. 

Tyrells and Swyfts and people Brienne does not recall meeting congratulate them and bid farewell. All the while Tywin looks on, his chest puffed and his head held high. 

Tyrion hugs his brother and beckons for Brienne to bend to his level. He kisses her cheek and promises to look after their baby if and when they will have him visit. 

The pleasant tone to their interactions ends when Cersei and Robert stand in front of their caravan, the last to leave. Robert, voracious with enthusiasm and ignorant to the tension between his wife and her family, promises to send the best of everything for the baby. 

Jaime only offers a fond farewell to his sister for the benefit of their father. He is grateful Brienne cannot hear when Cersei whispers, “I only hope she gives you a son. A daughter born from her loins would be-” 

He lets go of her and steps away. “Goodbye, Cersei,” Jaime tells her. His voice is firm and the sentiment lacks emotion. He reaches for Brienne’s hand, holding onto her as the King and Queen depart with a child Jaime wishes he could protect as well as he intends to protect his own. 

As the gates close behind the caravan, Tywin moves to stand in front of Jaime and Brienne. He rubs his hands together and says, “We must celebrate the news of a Lannister heir.” 

Jaime squints. “Did we not just-” 

“Nonsense. We need to announce the good news to the Westerlands and let our bannermen come and bless the young lordling.” 

“Or lady,” Brienne interjects. 

Tywin looks at her sideways. 

“Father,” Jaime says, “while we appreciate your obvious joy, we have only just begun to process how our lives will change in mere moons. We are exhausted and the halls of Casterly Rock are finally quiet. We would like some time-” 

“Fine,” Tywin groans, swatting at the air with his hand. He walks away from them, mumbling further plans. 

Brienne sinks against Jaime’s side and they both sigh and shake their heads. “Everyone is quick to deem the baby a boy,” she notes. “We could have a girl and she would be the heir the same as any son.” 

He nods his agreement. 

* 

It is dusk before Brienne feels hungry, and when she does, she is ravenous. She sits in the middle of the bed eating figs from a bowl and dipping crusty bread into cold stew and drinking milk with honey. Jaime picks up the empty dishes and sets them outside the door when she has all but licked them clean. She throws her legs over the side of the bed, feeling as though she needs to move and stretch. 

He adds a log to the hearth and says, “What exactly did Oberyn say to you?” 

“When?” Brienne asks. 

“When he practically swallowed your face.” 

She tilts her head back, laughing. She approaches Jaime where he stands and grabs his hand, tugging until he turns to face her. “When I was upset the other day, he suggested that men and women were not meant to be devoted to only one person. He said a lifetime is a long time to love only one man or woman.” 

Jaime settles his hands at her hips, kneading her through the thin fabric of her shift. “I do not think one lifetime is long _enough_ to love you,” he tells her. 

Her chin trembles and her eyes shine with happy tears. “I was thinking the same.” 

* 

When Brienne wakes on a clear morning without a trace of sickness, she has one request of her husband. “Let us take the horses and ride away from here. While I am still able.” 

Jaime happily agrees to her plan and they set off under a vibrant blue sky. He asks every few minutes how she is feeling, and eventually Brienne removes an apple from the sack she packed with sustenance and tosses it – hard – at her husband’s back. 

“Ow!” he bellows, arching his back. 

“I will tell you when I feel anything other than fine,” she promises. 

They ride in amiable silence until they can clearly see the harbor. Hitching the horses, they stand on a cliff looking down at the ships and the water. Brienne takes a deep breath and thinks the air smells fresh and earthy and sweet – not unlike the spiced honey wine exported from the city. “Maybe we should sneak onto a ship and sail to the Arbor. We could eat peaches all day,” she muses. 

Jaime puts his arm around her waist. “Is that what you want? To sail away and gorge on stone fruit?” 

“Only a little,” Brienne admits. 

He nods. “Me too. And we should. Someday we can take our son or daughter to Tarth.” 

She smiles and tilts her head against his shoulder. “Jaime... I understand we have an obligation as House Lannister to reveal our news and accept the blessings of our bannermen, but...” 

Jaime sighs. “You don’t need to say anything else. I’m not looking forward to it myself.” 

“It’s not that I don’t want to celebrate. I suppose I don’t want to celebrate your _father’s_ way.” 

He agrees with another nod of his head. They stand together, arms around one another, watching ships slowly travel this way and that way across the sea. Jaime feels content and does not want to disrupt the feeling. He wants to shout to the world that he is going to be a father, but he wishes to do so on their terms, not those of Tywin Lannister. He closes his eyes and can see rooms full of people, wine spilling over the tops of goblets, a feast on the tables in the Great Hall, harpists playing beautiful music. Warmth spreads through his chest and Jaime says, “I have an idea.” 

“Hmm?” 

He lets go of her and shifts to stand in front of Brienne. He takes hold of her hand as he sinks down onto one knee. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, amused. 

“Will you marry me?” 

“Jaime. We _are_ married.” 

He smiles. “I am aware. But marry me again. Let that be our celebration.” 

Brienne’s breath hitches. 

Jaime stands to his full height, taking hold of her other hand. “What comes to mind when you think of the day we stood in the sept reciting vows that did not mean anything to us at the time?” 

Her nose wrinkles. She remembers unhappy tears and feeling afraid and the awful way the men lingered outside the door to their bed chambers. 

“Exactly,” Jaime says, able to understand her grimace. “I feel as though our wedding was an obligation. It was ceremony. Something we had to do to please our fathers and their gods and their traditions. I feel differently about you now, Brienne, and I want to share that with everyone. Including our child.” 

She beams, laughing through tears and nodding fervently. “Me too, Jaime.” 

“Our guests don’t have to be only the houses who are loyal to us.” 

Brienne stares at him a moment. “We can invite the Starks?” she asks, hopeful. 

“If that is what you want.” 

She throws her arms around him and says, “Yes, yes, yes!”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Jaime experience the first several months of her pregnancy and welcome guests for their vow renewal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could write chapters and chapters of Brienne and Jaime going through a pregnancy together, but for the sake of time I went the montage route and quickly covered 6 months.
> 
> The dress Brienne wears is obviously based on Gwendoline Christie's Emmy gown, with one slight tweak in the fit. The Lannisters are all about defying expectations, so I didn't think Brienne would want it to seem like she was hiding/ashamed of her pregnancy in any way. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and letting me know what you think!
> 
> Edited to add a beautiful graphic from Ro_Nordmann! Thank you!

Jaime meets with the Septon to discuss the details of a second marriage ceremony (no traditional cloaking or vows) and Brienne sits down with the seamstress to describe what she would like to be wearing for it (something modest and no heavy fabrics). Ravens are sent to Tarth and Winterfell, and the Maester tells them Brienne will be at least six moons into the pregnancy by the time all their desired guests can arrive. 

The first hiccup in their planning takes place when Tywin goes against their wishes and sends a raven to King’s Landing. Jaime decides lying by omission is more beneficial to Brienne than worrying about Cersei’s presence. He keeps the information to himself, plotting how to keep his sister from arriving – false reports of King Robert’s violent detractors setting up camp along the Kingsroad, or perhaps he could go as far as to cause unrest in The Eyrie that would require a peace-making visit from the King and Queen? 

* 

Every morning and every night, Jaime curls up beside Brienne and rests his cheek on her stomach. He insists on talking to the baby even though she reminds him the Maester says he or she is only the size of a lemon. 

He turns his hand over and looks at his palm, imagining the shape and weight of a lemon there. “Lemon or quince,” he says, “I want him to know my voice.” 

“Or her,” Brienne gently reminds him. 

He repeats, “Or her,” and rolls the hem of her shift up so he can kiss the slight slope of her belly. 

* 

Brienne scolds Tywin and Jaime every time they refer to the baby as he or him, but in truth she feels the baby _is_ male. It’s not something she can explain if asked, but alone in the bath or sitting in the garden, she thinks of the life growing inside her as _my son_. 

* 

The kitchens run out of strawberries and Jaime very nearly takes a horse to the woods to forage; it is currently the food Brienne craves most. She empties bowls piled high with the juicy, red fruit, and spreads jam on bread, and slices them into porridge. When Jaime tells her there are none left, her chin trembles and he sees the gloss of tears in her eyes. 

Jaime wishes he could ask his father questions about his mother’s pregnancies. He knows for as much as Tywin wants an heir and a gaggle of children to line up behind him, the man will not speak of what it was like when Joanna Lannister carried his offspring. He likely rarely saw or spoke to his wife then. 

Jaime thinks about sending a second raven to The North asking Catelyn Stark to leave at once – for Brienne’s sake and for his. There are times he would even be pleased to have the honorable Eddard Stark across from him at the table, answering his questions and listening to his concerns. _Is it normal to be so upset over_ strawberries _? What am I supposed to do when she gets mad at me for simply worrying about her?_

* 

The first time Brienne feels the baby move she is in the keep and Jaime is in the armory. 

At first, she is filled with a sense of dread, mistaking the quick twitch in her lower abdomen as a sign of trouble. She sends for the Maester and he calls it quickening and when it happens again, it feels more like a gentle tickle. 

Brienne takes off for the armory and finds Jaime sitting on a stool, polishing a longsword he promised to a young man from House Payne for keeping the peace between his father and an angry man working the wharf. She is out of breath from her rush to reach him and Jaime sets the sword aside to stand and offer her the stool. “What’s wrong, Brienne?” 

“Nothing,” she says, panting. “I felt the baby.” 

He smiles and presses his hand to the front of her belly. “Is it happening now?” 

She moves his hand down and to the right, holding his fingers there. 

Jaime flinches in surprise when he feels the slightest movement beneath his fingers. “I felt it!” he proclaims, and they spend an hour in the armory, waiting to feel it again. 

* 

“I’ll be fine,” Brienne says as she trudges to the training yard. She has been maintaining a regular schedule of sparring with both Jaime and the Ser Benedict, but the men have taken note of several things – she gets winded more easily, arches her back and grimaces in pain quite often, and has lost more matches than usual. 

She points the blunt end of her sword at the dirt, beckoning Jaime to take his place. He does, and in only three moves she knocks the sword from his hand. “Again,” she says. 

Jaime yields the next round and in the third he falls on his back. He rubs the dust from his eyes and looks up to see Brienne, hands on her hips, glowering down at him. 

“You’re losing on purpose,” she barks. 

He shakes his head as he climbs to his feet. “No, I’m not. I hate to lose, you know that.” 

“It’s not about losing. You think you’re going to hurt me or the baby. Or that I’ll hurt myself. I don’t need you to be gentle, Jaime.” 

* 

Jaime grabs her by the ankles and pulls her to the edge of the bed. He kneels on the floor and Brienne hooks her legs over his shoulders. He hears a litany of moans, muffled by her thighs around his ears, as he uses his mouth to pleasure her. 

He moves one hand to her breast, knowing Brienne is particularly sensitive these days, and rubs her taut nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She bucks her hips and he moves his other hand to thrust two fingers in and out of her cunt. He feels her flutter around him, and she arches her back and moans and rides wave after wave of her release until her legs goes limp around his shoulders. 

* 

The seamstress arrives with Brienne’s dress for a fitting and Jaime is sent away. “You cannot see it until the ceremony,” he is told, which means he must wait almost a fortnight. 

Later, Brienne tells him she will have to stop eating the plum cakes she craves every night. “We had to rethink my attire,” she says. “She is worried I will expand too much between now and then.” 

He stands behind her and slides his hands from her hips to her belly, interlocking his fingers. “You will look beautiful no matter what,” Jaime tells her. He rests his chin on her shoulder. “Hmm.” 

“What?” 

“You said ‘attire.’ Not ‘dress.’ Perhaps that is a clue.” 

Brienne clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Perhaps I used a vague term to make you wonder.” 

He turns his head and laughs, and the sound vibrates against her neck. 

* 

Tywin arrives late for supper carrying a roll of parchment. He sets it down on the table as he takes his seat and announces, “King Robert and Cersei will not be making a trip West for a while.” 

Jaime is taking a drink and looks at Brienne over the rim of his goblet. She looks pleased. “Why is that?” he asks. 

“She is expecting again,” Tywin reveals with a content sigh. He picks up his goblet and raises it, toasting to a fruitful season for the Lannisters and Baratheons. 

“How wonderful,” Brienne says, but the look on her face – worried for Joanna and for the new baby if it’s not a boy – betrays her sentiment. 

Jaime wonders if the child will emerge with a darker complexion like his or her sister, or perhaps the golden hair of a man meant to take his place in Cersei’s bed. 

* 

The Starks arrive in one carriage. Tywin grimaces as child after child emerges from the door – Jon is first, and then he catches Arya when she jumps. He extends his hand for Sansa. He lifts Bran and then offers his hand to Catelyn. She accepts his gesture of help with a smile. 

Jaime and Brienne walk hand in hand toward them. The girls are eager to greet Brienne, and for several steps she walks with one child wrapped around each of her legs. 

“Ser Jaime. Lady Brienne,” Jon says, bowing at the waist. He looks taller and his voice is an octave deeper. 

Jaime shakes the boy’s hand and Jon is excited to show off the sword Ned gave to him. “All the best swords have names,” Jaime remarks. “Did you name yours?” 

“No,” Jon tells him. “It’s not mine to keep. I’m to return it to my father when he is home again.” 

Beside them, Brienne and Catelyn embrace. “Look at you,” Catelyn sighs, her eyes sweeping down to Brienne’s belly. “I’m thrilled for you and Ser Jaime.” 

“Where is your husband?” Brienne asks. 

Catelyn looks stricken. She takes Brienne aside, further from the children. “Ned had to stay behind with Robb and Theon. The Greyjoys took Deepwood Motte.” Ever since the Iron Islands declared independence from the Iron Throne there has been a significant amount of unrest and concern among the weaker Houses of the North. 

Brienne thinks Catelyn looks worried despite her insistence that everything will be taken care of peacefully, and it unsettles Brienne. She can’t help but think of war and having to offer Lannister soldiers and Jaime feeling the pull to fight. She herself would feel it, especially sending their own men into battle. She pushes the worry down and says, “Let me show you to your rooms.” 

* 

“The Greyjoys captured Deepwood Motte,” Brienne reveals to Jaime when they are alone in their chambers, dressing in their night clothes. 

He yanks his tunic over his head, mussing his hair, and looks to where she stands on the other side of the bed. “I had not heard that.” 

Brienne explains it is why Ned did not accompany his family. 

“Young Jon seems up to the task of representing the family while his father is unavailable,” Jaime notes. 

She nods in agreement. She heaves a breath at the relief of unlacing her tight breeches and pushes them over her hips as she sits on the bed. Jaime circles around to her side and rests on one knee at her feet. He tugs the material to her ankles and discards them. He picks up her foot and settles the back of her ankle against his knee, pushing his fingers into the arch where he knows she aches the most. “Thank you,” she sighs. 

He smiles and presses his thumb into her heel. “Did you notice something different about Catelyn and Jon?” he asks carefully. 

“I did. She seems...” 

“Warmer to him?” Jaime guesses. 

Brienne nods. “Yes. Closer. More... protective. The way she is with her own children.” 

He eases her foot to the floor and lifts the other to take its place. 

“I wonder if it has something to do with how worried she seems to be for Ned and Robb.” 

Jaime shakes his head. He pats her foot and she drops it to the floor, standing to remove her tunic in exchange for a long, sleeveless shift. He walks to the basin of clean water and splashes his face. He dries his beard with a linen, noting how much its grown recently. “Do you think I should shave before our wedding?” 

Brienne’s bare feet pad across the floor. She leans toward him. She cups his chin, tilting his head side to side, inspecting the wiry hairs. “It has its advantages. But I am rather tired of my skin burning every time we kiss. And I do miss your handsome face,” she tells him. “I suppose with as much as we’re disappointing your father, it would be kind to do one thing he will approve of.” Tywin thinks the wedding is taking place when all of the houses pledged to the Lannisters arrive at Casterly Rock, but in truth it will be days before that, with only him, Selwyn, Tyrion, the Starks, and the Marbrands in attendance. 

“I agree,” Jaime says. “I’ll have it taken care of tomorrow.” 

She shakes her head. “I’ll see to it now.” 

Jaime narrows his eyes. “My wife wants to wield a razor so near to my throat. Should I be concerned, Brienne?” 

She drops a quick kiss to his lips in response. She excuses herself long enough to ask for supplies to be brought to their chambers, and when they are, Jaime takes a seat by the basin of water. 

Brienne starts by pouring a liquid soap concocted by the Maester onto the palm of her hand. She rubs it into a lather and spreads it over Jaime’s beard. She holds the razor to his right cheek and scrapes downward, dipping the blade in the basin to wash it clean. She repeats the action several more times and on his other cheek, revealing patches of smooth skin. She stands behind Jaime and tilts his head back against her chest to shave the hairs that scatter over his jaw, to his neck. 

He closes his eyes and listens to the scrape of the blade and the commanding way she holds and manipulates his head, accessing every errant hair. Jaime is mildly embarrassed at the way his cock stiffens, but he enjoys the intimacy and the danger of the act, and the trust required. 

Brienne circles around him. She has to slide a chair away from the table and sit facing him to be able to shave the hair above his lip and covering his chin. She does so in quick, careful flicks of her wrist. She sets the blade aside and studies her work. She dips a rag in the water and wipes his face. She leans forward to kiss his clean-shaven cheek and Jaime tilts his head to capture her lips in a far less innocent kiss than Brienne intended. 

Her hands fall to his thighs. She moves to unlace his breeches and reaches beneath the fabric, surprised to find he is already hard and heavy in her hand. Her eyes snap open. “Jaime,” she whispers, and he responds with a coy smile. 

He draws in a sharp breath when Brienne quickly divests him of any remaining clothes. She is wearing only the shift, and when she stands between his legs, Jaime hikes the hem up to her hips. He strokes her cunt while she pulls the strap from one of her shoulders down toward her elbow, baring her breast. She leans forward, seeking the heat of his mouth, and Jaime obliges when he sucks the hard peak between his lips. Brienne enjoys the sensation of his newly smooth skin pressing against her. 

She retains her command over Jaime, lifting one long leg to hook around his hip and then the other, straddling him. Brienne has to sit at an angle, but she soon finds the position is advantageous to her pleasure. 

“Oh, gods,” Jaime cries out when she slides around the tip of his cock for only a moment. He tries to thrust upward, but Brienne’s thighs have him trapped to the seat. He shivers with need when she smiles wickedly, repeating the movement again and again until she finally takes all of him. 

Everything is slow, languid – the way Brienne rolls her hips, how she kisses him. She adjusts to the position and begins to move, faster and faster, the angle affording her a new sensation that makes her toes curl. The chair teeters and squeaks as Brienne loses herself in the pleasure, and Jaime tightens his hands at the small of her back and braces his feet flat against the floor. 

She is still trembling and moaning toward the ceiling when Jaime surrenders to his lust for her. His legs straighten and he digs his heels into the floor as he spends himself inside her. 

They both go limp and she collapses against him, her head landing on his shoulder. Brienne is certain if she attempts to stand her legs will give out. She catches her breath and tilts her head back, lifting her hands to frame his face. Her thumb strokes across the soft patch of skin above his lips. 

“If I had known,” Jaime whispers hoarsely, “I would have shaved sooner.” 

* 

The Great Hall is lively with the sounds of children’s voices and their boots clapping against the floor as they run around. Jaime and Brienne sit with Catelyn, Addam Marbrand, and his new wife, Jayne. They are discussing Tyrion’s whereabouts when the children suddenly go silent and still. 

The adults are puzzled until Addam looks to the doorway, drawing the others’ attention there. 

“Father!” Brienne shouts happily. 

An imposing figure steps further into the room. The height of Selwyn Tarth – a head above Brienne – and his long, silver beard and broad shoulders fascinate the children into silence. He must seem like a giant from the stories they hear, Brienne thinks, and she carefully extricates herself from the bench she is seated on. 

Selwyn smiles as his daughter comes toward him. He chokes on a breath, emotional at the sight of her carrying a child of her own. He lifts his hands to her shoulders and says, “You look well, Brienne. Are you feeling well?” 

She nods. “I am. Much better than the first several moons.” 

“I’m happy to hear it.” He squeezes her shoulders before letting go to wrap one arm around her back, walking beside her to the table as Jaime rises to his feet. “Jaime,” Selwyn greets him, extending his hand, “congratulations on the baby. How are you handling impending fatherhood?” 

Jaime inhales a shaky breath. He clasps a hand to his chest and says, “I’ve never been so frightened and excited, Ser. But I am ready.” 

“You see the Maester often?” Selwyn asks. 

Brienne and Jaime both nod. 

“He says the baby is growing as expected?” 

They nod again, and Jaime is struck by how Selwyn has not once used the word _heir_ to describe the baby. He gestures to the table and invites his goodfather to have a seat and dine with them and meet their friends. 

* 

The day of the wedding, Brienne invites Catelyn and her daughters to chambers to help her get ready. Jaime is exiled to anywhere else, and as Catelyn urges him out of the room, she drops a hint that Jon has wandered to the armory. 

“How do you plan to get Lord Tywin to the sept?” Catelyn inquires. 

“We’ll say we have good news about the baby. It doesn’t matter how improbable it is we could have _any_ news about the baby. This child,” Brienne says, rubbing her belly, “is all the man cares about.” 

Catelyn raises her eyebrows. 

“What?” 

“I don’t know,” Catelyn says carefully, “you say that like it’s a bad thing. I know Tywin Lannister is power hungry and sees this baby mostly as an heir to a legacy and a house, but... it could be worse.” 

Brienne nods. She sees a darkness fall across Catelyn’s face, a moment of pain. Regret. Brienne reaches for her hand. “Is something the matter?” 

Catelyn’s expression changes abruptly. She smiles and says, “Not at all. This is a wonderful day.” She looks to wear a garment is lying across the bed, hidden and protected beneath a velvet drape. “Time for the dress?” 

Brienne nods and lets her friend remove the cover, and they both gasp in delight at the finished product. Brienne removes her robe and Catelyn helps her dress in the gown. The first layer is white silk that falls to the floor. The sleeves are long and wide, and the skirt is loose around her legs. The hem of the dress and sleeves are embroidered in a pattern of gold and blue – the sun and the moon. The silk is purposely tighter below the chest and around the slope of her stomach, leaving no question that Brienne is pregnant with her husband’s child – fulfilling one of her requests to the seamstress. 

Next, Catelyn picks up a garment of red silk. It is sleeveless and fits over the white, the edges sparkling with sapphires and gold beads. “Oh, Brienne. How perfect! You look beautiful,” Catelyn says. Sansa agrees, and even little Arya stops jumping and running to gawk at the finished product. 

There is a light knock at the door and the two women look at one another, guessing it is Jaime coming to pester them. “I’ll send him away,” Catelyn says, crossing the room. 

It’s Jon on the other side of the door. He says, “I have a gift for Lady Brienne from Ser Jaime.” 

Catelyn glances over her shoulder and Brienne nods, approving the boy’s entrance into the room. 

Jon steps through the doorway and smiles. “I promise I will not reveal a single detail of what you are wearing to Ser Jaime,” he tells Brienne. He holds a box, cradling it in the palm of one hand while the other lifts the lid. 

Brienne steps closer and looks down. Her eyes well with tears. She picks up the object and says, “It’s a brooch,” and shows it to Catelyn – a lion’s head, it’s mouth open around a large sapphire. It is heavy, the size of her palm. 

“May I?” Catelyn asks, and when Brienne nods she takes the lion from her. She gathers the red silk together above Brienne’s belly and fastens the brooch there, holding the two sides together. 

Brienne sighs, pleased. “Thank you.” She looks at Jon and says, “Please tell Ser Jaime I adore his gift and cannot to wait to marry him. Again.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding begins and Catelyn Stark shares a secret with Brienne and Jaime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Ro_Nordmann for the beautiful artwork to accompany the story, and special thanks to everyone who has left kudos and commented. 
> 
> I feel like this story has been mostly random scenes from an arranged-to-happy marriage, and this chapter is the start of what I call actual plot. Forgive me if anything having to do with the politics of Westeros from here on out is completely inaccurate; I'm trying to be realistic to the world but will probably get a few things wrong to service the plot I want to play out.

The sept smells of fresh-cut flowers and the sandalwood oil used to scent the candles that burn behind Jaime. He stands beside Septon Varn and surveys the faces of the small crowd seated before him. The Stark children are well behaved, and he suspects the two youngest have been promised unlimited quantities of cake if they sit still. There is an empty seat in the front for Selwyn and to its left sits his current lady-friend. Tywin is present but scowling, as expected, and Tyrion arrives to claim his seat only moments before the doors open to reveal Brienne on the arm of her father. 

The guests rise to their feet and turn to watch Selwyn accompany his daughter down the aisle. Jaime’s breath catches at the sight of her. His palms are inexplicably clammy – his body reacting as though they have not done this before and are not already husband and wife. He takes a deep breath and locks eyes with Brienne as she makes her slow approach toward him. 

As she nears, Jaime tries to absorb all the evocative details of her dress – the intricate stitching, the colors that marry their houses – and his heart flutters at the sight of the lion pinning the red silk together. He thinks the dress accentuates her swollen belly and doesn’t know why he expected Brienne to hide it; nothing about her is predictable or willing to conform to expectations, and the very nature of the event is to shove tradition aside and marry in a way that suits them both. 

Brienne is pleased by the sight of Jaime’s gold brocade tunic and a velvet, sapphire blue sash draped from shoulder to hip. She accepts a kiss on the cheek from her father and accepts Jaime’s outstretched hand, climbing the two steps to stand across from him. 

Everything about the moment feels different from their first wedding. The sept is quiet and the air is easier to breathe. Neither of them wants to rush. There is no dread, only joy and hope. 

Per their request, Septon Varn says very few words to begin the ceremony, begrudgingly omitting or revising what would be said in any other ceremony. He steps back as the bride and groom join hands. Brienne casts a quick glance at Catelyn and Jaime realizes she is prompting the other woman with a secretive smile. 

Catelyn stands and, from her seat, recites from one of her most treasured prayers. “The Mother gives the gift of life and watches over every wife. Her gentle smile ends all strife, and she loves her little children.” She pauses and speaks in her own words, “Jaime, Brienne, may the old gods and the new bless your child and your union with health and happiness.” 

Brienne smiles her thanks and Jaime, stunned by the woman’s generosity toward even him, is struck silent. He feels Brienne squeeze his hand and turns his gaze back to her face. He has a false start, his voice cracking on her name. “Brienne, _some_ might think it indulgent and unnecessary to bring our friends and family together for a second marriage ceremony, but I am grateful for the second chance. In the beginning we were bound to one another by politics. We made an oath to one another because we had to repeat the words of the Septon. Tonight, I bind myself to you with love. I make an oath to you because you and our child mean the world to me and I can no longer imagine my life without you.” 

Her bottom lip trembles and she briefly tucks it under her teeth. A single tear escapes the corner of her eye. “Jaime, in the beginning I found our marriage to be a burden. I could not imagine a lifetime bound to such an arrogant, loathsome man,” Brienne says, drawing muffled laughter from the crowd and a playful, exaggerated frown from Jaime. “Sometimes I think I fell in love with you to spite the forces that brought us together, for we know they hoped for our misery. But I fell in love with you because as we travelled North, I saw your kindness and honor. I heard your secrets. I gave you my fears and you gave me comfort. It doesn’t matter anymore how we were brought together, only that we were.” 

Jaime bows his head until their foreheads touch. He whispers, “I love you.” 

Septon Varn steps closer to the couple and says, “Look upon each other and say the words.” 

As Jaime recites, “I am yours and you are mine, today and always,” Brienne says, “I am yours and you are mine, today and always.” 

Instead of binding their hands with a ribbon, Tyrion stands and walks the steps to place something in Jaime’s hand. Brienne is surprised when he opens his fingers to reveal two rings on his palm – a much smaller version of the lion’s head with a sapphire in its mouth. 

The Septon proclaims, “I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity,” as Jaime slides one of the rings on Brienne’s finger and she does the same to him. 

Jaime lifts Brienne’s hand and drops a kiss below the ring. He reaches up to clasp his hands around her face and says, “With this kiss, I pledge my love,” and their mouths meet softly. Her arms encircle him and the kiss deepens. It is only when the Septon clears his throat that Jaime and Brienne temper their growing passion and break apart. 

Joining hands, they turn to their friends and family, met by applause and smiles. Even Tywin seems to be genuinely touched by their obvious devotion to one another. 

* 

The wedding feast is far from lavish. Everyone sits at one long table until Tyrion goes off in search of more wine and the children begin to run and dance around the room. Jon remains at the table, his hands folded on his lap, listening intently to Jaime and Addam share stories from their youth. 

Brienne kisses Jaime’s cheek before saying to Catelyn, “Shall we sit by the hearth? I’m rather cold.” 

The other woman smiles and helps Brienne to her feet. They walk to the other side of the room and drag two chairs closer to the fire. They sit in companionable silence for a moment. “I wish all of you could be here when the baby is born,” Brienne confides. 

“Yes, that would be lovely.” 

“I cannot decide if I’m more nervous about giving birth or taking care of another living being.” 

Catelyn leans forward and rests her hand on Brienne’s knee. “I won’t tell you not to be nervous about the birth, although I truly believe you and the baby will be more than fine. But I will tell you _not_ to be nervous about being a mother to your child. You are going to be a wonderful mother.” 

Brienne blushes. 

“Truly, Brienne,” Catelyn stresses. “If something were to happen to me and Ned, I would be at peace knowing you were looking out for our children.” 

Brienne blinks. She is touched by the sentiment, but there is something foreboding in the tone of her friend’s voice. 

* 

Brienne walks ahead of Jaime into their chambers and he seals the door shut. She stands looking at the bed and yelps in surprise when he sneaks up behind her, reaching around her to fold his hands against her belly. “Jaime,” she sighs. “I’m rather tired.” 

He grasps her hips and urges her to turn and face him. “As am I,” he says, punctuating the statement with a yawn. “But I don’t want this night to end. I want you to wear this dress forever and ever.” He pauses, rethinking the statement. “Well, I want you to wear only this dress when you absolutely must be clothed.” 

She smiles and rests her hands against his chest, tracing the design in the brocade of his tunic. She lets herself fall forward, her head on his shoulder and her arms winding around him. He smells of the sept and the spiced wine. “In another fortnight it won’t fit,” Brienne tells him. 

“We’ll have the seamstress take it out.” 

She laughs softly and closes her eyes. Her eyes are heavy with sleep, her body slack in Jaime’s embrace, until she feels a jab near her ribcage. “Oh!” Brienne jumps back. “Did you feel that?” 

Jaime shakes his head. “No, what?” 

Brienne reaches for his hand. She tugs him with her to sit on the edge of the bed. She holds his hand where she felt the baby move and it happens again. Jaime’s eyes widen and brighten and he laughs. “I think that was an overhead strike. We have quite the swordfighter on our hands,” he muses. 

“Would you expect otherwise with us for parents?” 

“I suppose not,” he says, and they sit together, waiting for another jab. All thoughts of sleep are gone. 

* 

Jon is waiting at the bottom of the staircase when Jaime emerges from the keep. “Morning, Jon,” he calls out, bounding down the stairs – energized by the cool air and the joy of having felt their baby punch and kick throughout the night, regardless of how little sleep he got. 

The young man rises from where he sits and straightens his spine, squares his shoulders. “Good morning, Ser Jaime,” Jon responds, looking like a soldier ready for his orders. He adjusts the belt around his waist, proud to wear the sword gifted by his father. 

“Ready?” 

Jon nods and follows after Jaime to the training yard. They run down the hill, an unspoken competition that the younger of the two wins. 

“Show me what you’ve learned since I saw you in Winterfell,” Jaime suggests. 

Jon unsheathes his sword and demonstrates the new moves in his arsenal. He feels inadequate and says, “I think they will look better against an opponent.” 

Jaime laughs and points the boy to the tourney swords. 

Removing his belt, Jon trades his sword for a wooden blade and carries one to Jaime. 

The two of them begin, the swords tapping together. The sound becomes louder, harder, as Jon gains confidence in his moves. “Nice footwork,” Jaime compliments him, and more than once the boy genuinely takes him by surprise. 

Jaime is struck by the way Jon looks at him, with respect and admiration – the opposite of the way the boy’s father sees him. 

* 

The window in the sitting room faces the training yard. It’s too far for Brienne to see the details of Jaime and Jon’s faces, but nevertheless the sight brings gladness to her heart. She can imagine watching Jaime train their son to wield a sword, and the two of them giving the child lessons together. 

“Brienne?” 

She turns at the sound of the voice to see Catelyn. “Good morning. Thank you for joining me.” 

“Of course,” Catelyn says, walking further into the room. The two of them sit side by side and Brienne pours tea into a saucer for her friend. Catelyn appears to be hiding something behind her back, and as she says, “I finished it last night,” she reveals a small blue and gold sweater, the colors of the dye bleeding together. 

“This is adorable,” Brienne says, draping the small garment across her lap. “You knitted this?” 

Catelyn nods, amused at how impressed Brienne is with a task she finds so simple. 

The women sip tea and chat, all the while Brienne is distracted by something Catelyn said the previous night. She is complaining about her father’s newest woman when she gives up mid-sentence, changing the subject. “I’m sorry, but I must ask... are you sick, Catelyn?” 

The older woman looks confused. She touches her face, wondering if her pallor is alarming or she’s pink with fever. “No, what makes you ask?” 

Brienne sighs. “Last night, you sounded rather... cryptic when you said you would want me to look after your children if anything ever happened to you and Ned.” 

“Oh. I only meant...” Catelyn shakes her head. She briefly lifts her hands to her face before squeezing them into fists at her sides. “Brienne, if I confide something to you, you must swear you’ll never speak a word of it.” 

“Not even to Jaime?” Brienne wonders. 

Catelyn nods. “Yes, I’m sorry. Not even to Jaime.” 

Brienne thinks for a long, quiet moment. “It’s best you not tell me then.” 

Catelyn looks to the side, wringing her hands on her lap. “Alright,” she says. “Jaime can be told. Before Ned left, he shared something with me. He told me the truth about a secret that had once threatened to tarnish our marriage.” She pauses, wringing her hands on her lap. “Ned is _not_ Jon’s father.” 

Brienne releases a pent-up breath. “If he isn’t, then...?” 

“He is the only son of Ned’s sister, Lyanna, and... Rhaegar Targaryen.” 

Brienne’s heart seizes in her chest. _Targaryen._

“Lyanna was dying and he promised to raise the boy as his bastard son. To protect him from Robert and the Iron Throne,” Catelyn explains. She discusses the history between the current King and Lyanna, and all of the bloodshed and death happening as Jon came into the world as Aegon Targaryen. She adds, “For years I despised the boy, believing him to be the product of Ned and another woman’s affair. When my husband shared the truth with me, I saw the boy differently. I regretted how I treated him.” 

“Does Jon know?” 

Catelyn’s voice is grave when she says, “No. And he must never know.” 

“I noticed a change in your interactions with him. Do you suppose Jon has noticed?” 

Catelyn nods. “We had a conversation. I told the boy that I saw how strongly Ned loves him as they said goodbye. That I saw him differently, finally.” 

“Why do you think Ned finally told you?” Brienne asks. 

Catelyn’s eyes darken. “I think Ned is worried he will not come home alive. He can’t be sure no one else knows the truth of Jon’s parentage. He needed someone he trusts to know. To be aware of possible threats and be better equipped to protect Jon.” 

Brienne nods. “Lady Catelyn,” she says, adopting a more formal tone to plead her case, “you can trust me _and_ Ser Jaime. He will be a wonderful ally. A protector. He cares about that boy. I know it." 

* 

Jaime suggests they take the a more interesting route back into the castle. “Stairs are for peasants,” he jokes. “Tunnels are for kings.” 

Jon laughs and gamely follows Jaime, who has to procure a lantern to light their way. “Do all of the tunnels lead inside the castle?” the boys asks. “That seems unsafe.” 

“It does,” Jaime agrees. “The genius of the tunnels is that some become dead-ends. If they do take you into the castle, it’s a heavily guarded area. Some were dug to escort prisoners into the bowels of The Rock. Prisoners and lions.” 

Jon stops in his tracks. “Lions, Ser Jaime?” 

“Yes. In the bottommost dungeons you can still hear them roar. Some people will tell you it’s the sea, but I know better.” 

* 

“Jaime?” Brienne asks. 

Their joined hands rest between them on the bed, and he gives hers a squeeze, letting her know he is still present. Jaime is lost in thought, absorbing the tale she has shared about Jon Snow and his Targaryen blood. He bows his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Snow is a Targaryen,” he whispers. 

“No one can know,” she reminds him. 

Jaime nods. “I understand.” He lets go of her hand and stands from the bed to pace a small stretch of the floor. “I always believed Rhaegar to be a worthy king. I would have been happy to see him take the throne.” He stops and looks at Brienne. “I failed to protect him and his children. Or so I thought.” 

She hoists herself up. 

“Jon is an honorable young man. He _could_ grow into a fine king.” 

“That is not the life his mother wanted for him,” Brienne says. 

Jaime nods. “I understand. But knowing the truth of his parentage... don’t you wonder if it might be the life Jon would want for himself? If he knew?” 

Brienne sighs. She wonders if telling Jaime was a mistake. “Jaime...” 

He meets her gaze. “I know. I swear to you, I won’t say anything.” He turns around, walking to the window. “But what happens if Robert dies young? Before he even has a son? Cersei tries to stay in power with her daughter? Stannis Baratheon claims a crown he has no right to?” 

She joins him at the window, her palm resting between his shoulders. “Yes. I suppose.” 

Jaime turns sharply to look at her. “You’re fine with that? _Stannis_? He is a humorless man. He lacks empathy.” 

“If I’m being honest, no, I would find his brother Renly a more just king. But it is not up to me. Or you.” 

“I know,” he says, resigned. 

Brienne loops her arms around his waist. “Are you sorry I told you?” 

Jaime shakes his head. “Not at all. If the need arises, I will do what I can to protect Jon Snow.” 

* 

The baby disrupts Brienne’s sleep and she is awake to hear muffled, angry sounding voices. She nudges Jaime and he murmurs, turning his face into the pillow. She scoots to the edge of the bed and stands with a groan. The movement is enough to make Jaime flip onto his back and open his eyes. 

“Brienne?” he whispers, concerned. He then hears the commotion outside their door and is relieved there is at least no problem with his wife or child. He scrambles out from under the cover and finds his breeches, pulling them up to his waist as Brienne opens the door to their room. 

The noise ceases. He can see over Brienne’s shoulder that Catelyn is there, and Braedon. “What in the seven hells is going on?” he asks, barging across the floor to open the door wider. 

Catelyn and Braedon’s explanations overlap one another. 

“One at a time. Catelyn, please,” Jaime says. 

“I apologize for the intrusion. But I must speak with you. Privately,” she says through gritted teeth, glaring at the squire. 

Brienne steps aside. “Of course. Catelyn, come in.” She looks at Braedon. “Everything is fine. Please go back to your room,” she instructs before closing the door on him. 

Catelyn paces the floor twice before she asks, “Ser Jaime knows?” 

He and Brienne nod. 

“I couldn’t sleep. Not without talking to you.” 

Jaime takes a step toward her. “Lady Catelyn, I know you have only recently been able to tolerate me. Despite my history and reputation, I’m a man of my word. I will not speak of Jon’s parentage. Not to Jon, not to anyone.” 

Catelyn takes a breath and her shoulders, pulled tight to her ears, relax. “I believe you, Jaime. But... I suppose I needed to hear it myself.” She and Jaime both turn their heads at the sound of a sword being unsheathed from its scabbard, and they see Brienne in the firelight holding her weapon. 

“Brienne?” Jaime whispers. 

She approaches Catelyn and winces as she gets down on one knee, laying the sword at her friend’s feet. “I am yours, my lady. I will shield your ba-” 

“Brienne, you don’t need to do this,” Catelyn tells her. 

“I do,” Brienne says. “I will shield your back and give my life-” 

Catelyn bends down and takes hold of the scabbard of the sword, pointing the tip at the floor and reaching her other hand to Brienne. “I can’t ask you to make an oath you won’t be able to keep. Your oath is to Jaime and your family. Not mine.” 

“I want you to understand, Catelyn, that my vow to protect Jon and his secret is as important to me as my vow to Jaime and our baby. I’m certain he feels the same,” Brienne says, looking to her husband. 

Jaime steps forward, nodding. “Yes. I do.” 

“You don’t need to lose sleep over this, Catelyn,” Brienne tells her friend. “If the need arises, Jaime and I will be guardians of Jon’s secret and his well-being. We would watch after all of your children if that was needed of us.” 

Beside her, Jaime hopes the dimly lit room hides the tension in his face – tight, forced smile, clenched teeth. He means what he swears to Catelyn, but he knows what it is like to make so many oaths that inevitably one will be broken. One will come against another and force a painful decision with painful repercussions. He dislikes the idea of Brienne in such a situation. Much to his shame, he dislikes the idea of his wife’s loyalties ever threatening to disrupt their own family for someone else’s. 

* 

The gates to Casterly Rock open to welcome members of the houses loyal to the Lannisters. All through the morning and afternoon, men and some women hitch their horses and are brought to The Great Hall where Jaime and Brienne receive their guests. It is an exhausting procession of, among many others, members of Houses Payne, Lefford, and Crakehall. 

Brienne hides a yawn behind her hand and Jaime sends Braedon for mint tea and the cold mutton his wife has been craving. 

The line of people begins to diminish, signaling an afternoon lull. Several members of House Swyft pay their respects and give their blessings, moving aside to reveal the only people Brienne and Jaime are happy to set eyes on – the Starks. 

“You never need to wait in a line to speak to us,” Brienne says. 

“We didn’t want to interrupt,” Catelyn explains. “But we wanted to make sure we said a proper goodbye.” 

Brienne’s face falls. “Goodbye?” 

“It’s time. And we want to be on the road before dark.” 

“Of course,” Jaime says, the legs of his chair scraping on the floor as he stands. He offers Brienne his hand and helps her to her feet. They walk around the table. “We’ll see you out,” he says, and bends to pick Bran up. Arya reaches up, wanting to be carried by Brienne, but settles for having her hand held instead. 

They walk in a crooked line to the horses and carriage. Catelyn notices two young men, dressed in unfamiliar armor – no discernable colors visible. She looks at Jaime, posing a silent question. 

“Lady Catelyn, I’ve asked two of our soldiers to ride North with your family,” Jaime says. He steps closer to her, speaking softly. “I didn’t think it would be safe to identify them as part of the Lannister garrison, but I’ll feel better sending you all of if you’ll agree to let them accompany you.” 

Catelyn’s instinct is to balk at the idea, but she can see Jon through the corner of her eye – entertaining Sansa by seemingly making a coin disappear inside his closed hand – and tells Jaime, “Thank you.” 

He is pleasantly surprised by her agreeability, having prepared for a fight. 

Brienne bids farewell to each of the children, and when she embraces Catelyn, a voice in her head whispers _don’t let go_. She tightens her arms around the other woman, flooded with unease. “Please be careful,” Brienne whispers. “And send a raven if you ever need us.” 

Catelyn nods and has to pry herself out of Brienne’s strong hold. She rests her hand on the slope of Brienne’s belly and says, “You do the same. Let us know as soon as the babe is born.” 

“We will,” Jaime chimes in, and along with Jon, he helps each of the women into the carriage and settles Bran on his mother’s lap. He stands across from Jon, and when the boy offers his hand, Jaime surprises them both by drawing him into an embrace. He claps his hand on Jon’s back before releasing him and says, “Be well, Jon Snow. Keep practicing.” 

The younger man nods emphatically. “Yes, Ser.” He looks to Brienne and bows at the waist, thanking her for the hospitality before joining his family in the carriage. 

Jaime slides his arm around Brienne’s waist and pulls her tight against his side. They watch the horses trot away, gaining speed outside the gate. Tywin calls for them to return to the hall – something about making Steffon Swyft wait – but they linger outside a while longer.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Jaime await the birth of their first child and receive sad news from the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to come up with a new way to say thank you for reading and commenting so I'm not always repeating myself, but... thank you for reading and commenting!
> 
> Banner by Ro_Nordmann.

“Maester Creylen says the baby was ready to be born a fortnight ago,” Brienne says, shifting on the bed from her back to her knees. She is unable to find comfort in any position, and flat on her back she cannot see what is in front of her over the curve of her bulbous belly. 

The bedroom smells like the salve the Maester concocted for Jaime to rub on Brienne’s stomach and lower back. He claimed it would ease pain and induce labor, but so far, the ointment’s only accomplishments are making her skin oily and making the room smell of herbs and lemon. She has been given a tea made of raspberry leaves and has eaten a platter of spiced chicken and bowls of dates – all of which fail to convince the baby to leave her womb. 

“Perhaps sparring would help,” Brienne suggests. 

She earns a heavy sigh from Jaime. “Could you even make it to the training yard?” he questions her. 

“Yes.” 

“I can think of safer activities.” 

Brienne rolls her eyes. “But sparring would serve two purposes.” She bends forward as much as she can manage, stretching the ache in her lower back. 

“Labor is obviously one. What is the other?” 

“I can pummel you with a wooden sword.” 

Jaime laughs quietly. He walks to the bed and climbs onto his knees beside her, resting on his haunches. He massages her back and shoulders. “There is something else we could do,” Jaime reveals. 

She shoots daggers at him. “What would that be?” 

“Sex.” 

Brienne grunts her dissatisfaction and smacks his thigh with the heel of her hand. “Only you could find a way to use the delayed labor of our child as an excuse to fuck,” Brienne scolds him. 

He shrugs, because he will seize every opportunity to make love to his wife, but earnestly tells her, “I did not invent that, Brienne. It may not work any better than the salve or the tea, but I am not the first to suggest it. You can ask Maester Creylen.” Jaime is interrupted from further convincing her by a knock at the door. He drops a kiss on her temple and jogs across the room, answering the door to see Braedon. 

“Ser Jaime, your father is requesting your presence in his study.” 

* 

When Jaime arrives, his father is absent from the room. It feels like a strategic move to make the Lord of Casterly Rock wait. 

He feels transported to boyhood when he was forbidden from entering the room. There is a sense of wrongdoing in simply standing on the floor, and yet he feels a child’s temptation to explore everything. Jaime wanders the perimeter of the room, touching the ornate carvings in the wood-paneled walls. He plucks a book from the shelf and particles of dust linger in the air. He sits on the chair behind his father’s desk; it appears to be newly upholstered in a lush emerald green velvet. While he sits there, he can’t help but notice a roll of parchment – either an unopened message or one ready to be sent off with a raven. Jaime reaches for it to get a look at the wax seal, but he nearly tips a jar of ink over. The sound of approaching footsteps has him jumping from the chair and standing with his hands locked behind his back. 

Tywin enters the room, clearing his throat. “Jaime. Thank you for coming. How is Brienne faring?” 

“She is rather uncomfortable,” Jaime tells him. 

“Maester Creylen gave you the raspberry tea?” 

Jaime nods. 

“The salve?” 

“The salve and spiced chicken and countless dates. Yes, all of it.” 

Tywin sits behind his desk and asks, “Intercourse?” 

Jaime winces. “Well, uh... Brienne did not believe me when I said that is supposed to help.” 

Tywin moves on to the next topic and tells Jaime, “You’re aware of the Greyjoy’s uprising?” 

“Yes, they took Deepwood Motte.” 

“And killed Robbett Glover.” 

Jaime had not been aware of the death of the heir to House Glover. He takes a seat opposite his father and folds his hands on his lap. “I can afford to send men, but Robb Stark should be able to assemble twenty-thousand fairly fast. That should be more than enough to stave off Ironborn rebels,” he muses. 

“There is no need at this time,” Tywin tells him. “But we should worry about the Greyjoys turning their sights on the Westerlands. The fleet was spotted from the shore of The Crag.” He is quiet a moment. “There is something else.” 

Jaime leans forward. 

“It seems Theon Greyjoy, the boy taken in by your friends Ned and Catelyn Stark, has renewed his loyalty toward his own house.” 

Jaime’s heart sinks for the Starks, and he can see the glee on his father’s face – the joy he derives from delivering unfavorable news for the Lord and Lady of Winterfell. He feels a pain in the pit of his stomach. Theon knows the ins and outs of Winterfell, and his defection and Ned’s attention on the brewing animosity leaves the Northern castle and its inhabitants vulnerable. Jaime doesn’t express his thoughts out loud, but he makes a mental note to arrange a meeting with Ser Benedict to discuss sending protection to the Starks specifically. 

* 

Brienne looks down at Jaime, his eyes closed, one arm hanging off the side of the bed and the other tucked under the covers. She reaches over and gives his shoulder a shake. He remains undisturbed. She bounces the mattress as best she can, but all it does is make Jaime shift slightly and put both arms under the covers. 

“Jaime,” Brienne whisper-shouts, poking his bicep. She pinches the covers and yanks them down to his feet in one swift motion. 

His eyes snap open and he sits up. “Is it time?” he asks in a gasp of breath. 

She shakes her head. 

“Do you need something?” Jaime asks. 

Brienne bites her lip and nods. _Yes._

He waits for her to name what it is she needs. “Brienne?” he prompts. 

Her eyes skim from his bare chest down to the bulge under his smallclothes. “I still don’t believe you,” she says, “but I’m desperate to have this baby. I’ll try anything.” 

Jaime grins. He is wide awake, and the rest of his body wastes no time in responding to the innuendo of Brienne’s words. He leans over, his lips parting in anticipation of a kiss. 

She lifts her hand between them, stopping him. “I am as big as the North and can hardly bear to remain in one position for more than a second. I don’t see how this can work, logistically.” 

Jaime’s grin broadens. “I do,” he whispers, and clambers onto his knees. He grabs at the hem of her shift and she helps him pull it up and over her head. He divests himself of his smallclothes. “Can you get comfortable on your side?” he asks gently. 

Brienne feels a shiver run the length of her spine at the concerned tone of his voice and the excitement she recognizes in his eyes; she does not feel desirable, but he still wants her. “Yes,” she answers, and with his help she reclines on her side, facing away from him. He strokes himself as he settles behind her and Brienne feels him hard against her backside. She moans and her eyes close as Jaime reaches between her thighs. 

He touches her until his fingers are coated in the proof of her arousal. “I’m going to lift your leg,” he tells her, and he does – his hand clasped behind her knee to hold her up. Jaime is being careful with her, though he knows that Brienne is somehow even less delicate pregnant. She is still strong enough to strike him down with a sword and to hold her own against any threat – be it in the training yard, Tywin at supper, a raven with bad news from the North – but Jaime’s touch and tone are gentle. Mindful of the baby. Reverent to his wife. 

He maneuvers slightly and Brienne sighs at the sensation of him between her legs. He kisses her shoulder blade as he slowly pushes into her. He asks if she feels okay, and when Brienne nods and murmurs affirmatively, Jaime begins to move his hips in slow, shallow thrusts. 

She relaxes against him, and Jaime slides his other arm beneath her, gaining access to her breasts. He rubs and pinches the puffy, pink tips, drawing a low, satisfied moan from Brienne. She pants, heavier and heavier, as he begins to drive into her with greater speed and force. He lets her leg fall across his hip so he can reach down and touch her cunt, and the added friction has Brienne careening over the edge. She grunts his name and flutters around his cock and Jaime pulls out. 

“Why did you stop?” she asks. 

Jaime props himself up so he can see Brienne’s face. Her cheeks are rosy and he smooths back an errant strand of hair, damp with sweat. “This isn’t about me,” he says softly. “I wanted to be able to last... if you want.” 

“If I could sit up, I would kiss you right now.” 

He leans down, seeking the heat of her mouth. Jaime knows she has been able to find comfort on her hands and knees – an untenable position during a meal in the hall or a meeting with the steward, but perfect in their chambers. He slips one hand between the bed and her ribcage, helping her to sit up as she adjusts her legs. “Kneel, Brienne,” he says, somehow commanding and gentle. 

She obliges and he wedges a pillow beneath her stomach. A moment later he is behind her, teasing her slick flesh with the head of his cock. Jaime’s hands grasp her hips. She rocks back against him. He enters her slowly and sets a languorous pace, his face set in concentration as he restrains himself from ceding to the pleasure too soon. “Jaime,” Brienne sighs, and she gasps and moans and the sounds are eventually his undoing. With one final thrust he spends himself inside her. 

Brienne shifts onto her side again and their bodies collapse into a pile of interlocked limbs. He presses his forehead against the nape of her neck and closes his eyes. “How do you feel?” he asks after they’ve both caught their breath. 

She answers first with a relaxed, satisfied sigh, and then tells Jaime, “You did a fine job distracting me from my discomfort and frustration.” 

He closes his eyes, hoping Brienne will wake him in the middle of the night to say _it’s time._

* 

The only thing that happens in the middle of the night is a cramp in Brienne’s leg. She curses and jerks her leg and strains to reach her calf. The movement wakes Jaime and she immediately tells him, “It’s not the baby,” and he massages where the muscle is tight and painful. 

* 

A birthing bed has been situated in an empty room in the keep. Brienne has agreed to move there in anticipation of the little lordling or lady’s arrival, but she refuses the wet nurse Tywin presents. “I will nurse my own baby,” she tells Jaime through gritted teeth. 

He agrees with his wife and admonishes Tywin’s interference. Privately, the Maester suggests they not dismiss the young woman until they know Brienne is able to produce enough milk. She takes offense at the suggestion, which segues into fear of inadequacy and leaves her inconsolable for the rest of the morning. 

* 

Jaime insists he will not leave the room – not to attend a meeting and certainly not during the birth of his child – which is how Ser Benedict finds himself sitting on one side of Brienne’s bed. 

“Go on,” Jaime says to the Master at Arms. “The Lady of Casterly Rock has every right to take part in this meeting.” 

Ser Benedict glances sideways at the swell of Brienne’s belly. He clears his throat and begins to detail reports of the Greyjoys assembling armies in the far North – closer to the Bay of Seals than Blackwater Bay. “They have attacked the least prepared region,” he explains. 

He goes on to describe a battle near Karhold that resulted in more deaths of Northern Soldiers than those pledged to House Greyjoy. Jaime and Brienne exchange concerned looks, and when Ser Benedict leaves, he sits beside his wife and she says, “That sounds like war to me, Jaime.” 

“Yes,” he reluctantly agrees. “The Starks have allies in House Tully. But we can afford to send help.” 

Brienne is torn; she wants to assist the North and the Starks, but she worries Jaime will be compelled or forced to join the battle. And if she’s completely honest with herself, a small part of her wishes it was possible to fight in the war herself. Brienne's eyes dance around the empty room, and she feels stripped of her sword and armor and tries to imagine how she will reclaim that part of herself with a baby latched to her breast. 

She begins to offer her opinion on the number of soldiers needed when her words become an incomprehensible groan of pain. Jaime knocks his chair over as he stands to attention. “Brienne?” 

“It’s time,” she grunts, pointing her gaze down to her lap. Her shift and the blankets beneath her are wet. 

Jaime loses time for a moment, all sound muted as the room goes black. He is brought back to the moment when Brienne clenches his hand with brute force and shouts, “Jaime!” He wrenches out of her hold, rubbing his bruised hand, and runs from the room to call for help. 

* 

The birth of their child begins with such urgency that Jaime is concerned when the Maester arrives and proclaims it could be several hours before the baby is in their arms. The time passes with cool rags on Brienne’s forehead, herbs to help with the pain, Jaime pacing the floor, and Tywin stopping outside the door for updates. 

Jaime dozes at nightfall with his head on the bed and wakes to a guttural cry from Brienne. The Maester hears and barges into the room. He sits at the foot of the bed and urges Brienne to bend her knees. He examines her and tracks the time between her attacks of crippling pain. After a while, he announces, “It is time.” 

The nurse gives Brienne a leather strap to bite down on, and Jaime offers his hand to hold. Maester Creylan tells Brienne when to push and the nurse instructs her on how to breathe until she cannot tolerate being told what to do a moment longer. She leans forward, spits the leather strap onto the bed, and screams as she pushes. 

Jaime whispers words of encouragement, watching the scene unfold with tears blurring his vision. The blood saturating the sheets concerns him, but the Maester doesn’t seem worried. He was informed there would be some and trusts everything is okay. He shifts closer to the foot of the bed, his hand still clenched tightly by hers, and announces, “I see the head!” 

Brienne cries and smiles and screams and pushes while Jaime narrates what he sees. His voice dissolves into joyful sobs, though, when the Maester tells Brienne to push one last time and helps guide the baby out. “We have a son,” Jaime manages to tell her, and while the Maester tends to the crying boy, he wraps his arms around his wife. 

“A boy,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. Brienne falls back against the pillows behind her and he kisses her forehead. Her eyes struggle to remain open, and all of the sounds dim. She fights the exhaustion, wanting and needing to hold her son, and it feels like an eternity passes before the Maester places the baby against her chest. 

Brienne holds her hand against the baby’s back and Jaime cradles his son’s head. He leans down to get a look at the baby’s face and kisses Brienne’s check. They both touch their son’s fingers and toes, counting ten each, and marvel at the impossibly small hands and feet. “He’s here,” Jaime whispers. 

“He’s beautiful,” Brienne cries. 

* 

Brienne insists on moving back to their chambers, and the baby’s bassinet is placed in the middle of the bed. She reclines beside it, falling in and out of sleep, while Jaime divides his time between watching them both and preparing ravens to go to Selwyn, Tyrion, and to the Starks. He stations two men from the garrison outside their door to fend Tywin off until Brienne is ready for visitors. 

“I suppose he needs a name,” Brienne says, and the sound of her voice startles Jaime. 

“You’re awake.” He sets the quill on the table and rises from his chair. He stops at her side of the bed first to drop a kiss on her cheek, then circles around the foot of the bed to sit on the other side of the bassinet. 

They had conversations about the name before, but both agreed they needed to meet their child first. Brienne had mentioned that very few of her siblings lived long enough to be named, but the boy that did was Galladon. Jaime had offered up the names of relatives – Kevan, Gerold, Willem. There were people who had been important to them, like Arthur and Duncan. They each had names they liked the sound of, such as Olivar and Quentyn and Endrew. 

Jaime and Brienne take turns saying the names out loud. They share a laugh when they both admit to half expecting their infant son to react. 

“Jaymes?” Brienne suggests. 

“Too close to Jaime,” he notes. 

She shrugs. “That isn’t a terrible thing.” 

“I want him to be his own person.” 

Brienne smiles. 

Jaime tests the sound of a new name. “Aiden.” 

She shrugs, indifferent. “My brother was named after Ser Galladon of Morne,” Brienne remarks. 

“He wielded the Just Maid?” 

She nods. “I never met a man, woman, or child on Tarth who did not claim to be descended from him.” 

Jaime closes his eyes. “Galladon,” he says. “Galladon Lannister. Lord Galladon.” 

“Ser Galladon,” Brienne adds, and just then the baby releases a soft sound. They both lean over the sides of the bassinet to see his eyes open for a moment. They look to each other, sharing a smile. 

* 

“Galladon?” Tywin repeats the name presented to him. 

“Yes,” Jaime states firmly. “Our son’s name is Galladon Lannister. Named for Brienne’s deceased brother.” 

Tywin makes no attempt to hide his distaste. “The firstborn son of the Lord of Casterly Rock should have the name of a Lannister.” 

“He does,” Jaime says. “Galladon Lannister, the first of his name.” 

* 

Brienne asks Jaime to situate a chair by the window, and he wakes to see her there with Galladon at her breast. They are framed by the haze of sunrise, their skin kissed by the peach glow. She is dressed in only a pair of breeches and the baby is swaddled in soft blankets. His small mouth is latched to her breast and Brienne gazes down at his face with adoration and wonder. Now and then she has to adjust, and whispers sweet words of encouragement when Galladon stops sucking. 

Jaime thinks she looks beautiful and strong and that motherhood suits her well. 

* 

Galladon’s first moon outside the womb is a blur of feedings, visitors, ravens sending good wishes, and his parents sleeping at odd hours in odd places. Brienne does not disturb Jaime when he falls asleep with his head on the table at supper, and she wakes once sitting outside the kitchens, unable to recall how she ended up there. 

Brienne has little to compare him to, and is biased, but she finds Galladon to be a pleasant baby. “His cries are polite,” she remarks to Jaime one evening, and after considering the statement a moment he has to agree; there is something of restraint to the way he screams, less loud in the middle of the night or when they are trying to sit down for a meeting with Ser Benedict. 

There is a lull in the fighting between the Greyjoys and the North, which worries them as much as any sign of unrest. Rumors begin to fly that Euron Greyjoy set a meeting with King Robert, and Brienne muses that he is likely angling for a position of power in King’s Landing to then turn the tables on his family. 

Ser Benedict is impressed with Brienne’s military knowledge and begins to actively seek her opinion. Jaime tells her they will write songs about her – a Lady Knight who commandeered an army with a child at each breast. 

“I’m not a knight,” she reminds him. 

“But you could be,” Jaime insists. 

Brienne scoffs. “What have I done to deserve knighthood?” 

“You saved a family from the Flayed Men of House Bolton. You were willing to swear your service to Catelyn Stark. You are-” Jaime pauses. “It hardly matters what you have or haven’t done, Brienne. It’s all the good I believe in my heart you are going to do.” 

* 

She never needs the assistance of the wet nurse, but Brienne hires Rose to stay on. She doesn’t think of the young woman as a caretaker, but rather a knowledgeable resource on the care and development of an infant. Brienne does not complain, though, when Rose offers to stay with Galladon so Jaime can take her to spar for the first time since giving birth. 

“Do not go easy on me,” Brienne warns him as they pick up wooden swords. 

“I was going to say the same,” Jaime responds. 

Brienne lunges, swinging from the side, but Jaime’s sword catches the blow. She is energized by the tap-tap-tap of their swords, a sound she has missed. It feels good to break a sweat. 

The clouds above them darken, concealing the blue sky in a heavy, dour gray. Brienne tilts her head back and flinches when a drop of water lands near her eye. She looks at Jaime and before either of them can remark on the oddity of rain in Lannisport, the errant drop becomes a downpour. In a matter of seconds their tunics cling to their bodies, soaked through. She holds her arms out, giving in to the weather and letting it cool her. 

Jaime is content to remain there, his boots beginning to sink into the wet mud, but when he takes note of the way her white tunic becomes transparent, he is reminded of another activity they have scarcely been able to take part in. “Brienne,” he shouts above the sound of the rain, reaching out for her hand. She takes hold of him and follows behind Jaime as he takes off, leading her to an empty stable. 

The roof of the stable shields them from the rain and muffles its sound. Jaime licks his lips and lunges for her, hooking one arm around her waist while his other hand gropes her breast. He drags his thumb across the pink flesh visible beneath her saturated tunic. Brienne lifts her arms, urging Jaime to peel the garment up the length of her torso and over her head. He discards it and growls as he bends his head to lash his tongue across her swollen nipples, tasting her skin and sweat and rainwater and the sour of milk. 

Brienne grabs him by the waist of his breeches and moves forward, propelling Jaime against the nearest wall. She kisses him, rough and needy, while her hands unlace his breeches and she pumps his half-hard cock until he is thick and rigid between her fingers. “Oh, gods,” he grunts, and as tempting as it is to let Brienne stroke him to completion with her large, strong hand, he longs to be between her legs. 

Jaime grasps her hips and turns so that her back is against the wall. He rolls her breeches down to her ankles and she chucks them aside. His hand cupped between her legs, she grinds against him before Jaime fucks her with his fingers. Brienne loops one arm around his neck and lifts the opposite leg to hook around his hip, crying out when Jaime replaces his fingers with his cock. She pushes her hips forward, meeting his every thrust in a frenzied rhythm. 

His hand supports her leg, and when he hitches her knee even higher above his hip, Brienne feels him even deeper. Jaime pins his other hand between the back of her head and the wall, offering a cushion as their passion escalates. The rain continues to batter the roof, masking their overlapping moans and shouts as Brienne’s pleasure peaks and Jaime spills inside her. 

They slowly pull away from the wall and embrace as they sink down onto the bed of dirt and hay. Later, Brienne will think to drink moon tea, but as they cling to one another, their only thoughts are of each other. 

* 

Galladon has been in their lives for three moons when word of another infant’s birth reaches Casterly Rock – his new cousin, Cassana. 

“Another girl,” Brienne says, reading the raven over Jaime’s shoulder. 

“Named for Robert’s mother,” he tells her. 

Brienne combs her fingers through his hair and looks to where their son is asleep in his bassinet. 

“There was another raven.” 

She stills her hand at the back of his neck. “Oh?” 

Jaime reaches for the parchment and unrolls it. “It’s from Tyrion,” he explains. “It seems that upon the birth of King Robert’s second daughter, his brothers are beginning to make noise about the line of succession to the throne.” He reads directly from the scroll when he says, “To make matters worse, I’ve been told the Dragon is awake.” 

Brienne moves to sit on the edge of the desk. “What does that mean?” 

“The Mad King’s remaining children were exiled from Westeros. Viserys is no longer a little boy. He is plotting how to reclaim the throne.” 

She holds her breath and Jaime looks up at her. In unison they whisper, “Jon.” 

“We have no reason to suspect any living Targaryens are aware of another brother. And even if they were, Viserys wants the throne for himself. He would never draw attention to another boy in the family.” 

Brienne nods, feeling slightly better for Jon’s safety but no less concerned for peace among the Seven Kingdoms. She moves to the bed, carefully lifting Galladon from his bassinet. She cradles him to her chest and a prayer she heard Catelyn recite comes to mind. _Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray. Stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day._

* 

Each day seems to bring at least one new raven – speculation from Tyrion, news of the fighting between the Greyjoys and the North, and even lords of noble houses already wanting to arrange an eventual marriage between one of their daughters and Galladon. 

Those are the ravens Brienne crumples and tosses into the fire. 

She watches Jaime break the wax seal of a new raven and says, “Do not even read it to me if that is Lord Prester trying to-” 

“It’s from Catelyn,” Jaime tells her. 

Brienne’s heart sinks. Her throat tightens. She knows from the sheen of Jaime’s eyes that it is not good news. 

He clears his throat and says, “Ned. He was-” 

“No,” she cries softly, shaking her head. 

Jaime sets the parchment on the table. He crosses the room, meeting her halfway, and they fall into one another’s open arms. 

“Poor Catelyn,” Brienne says. “And the children.” 

He tightens his arms around her. He thinks of Jon, and knows him well enough to surmise the boy is going to want to fight. Jaime knows they promised to protect him from the war over the throne, but he feels compelled to protect him from wanting to avenge the death of the man who raised him. He can’t help but wonder what choices Jon would make if he knew his true heritage.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to write every moment of Jaime and Brienne’s lives together, but I’m not sure any of us has time for that. :) Hence, a time jump is upon us! 
> 
> Also, I'm likely making up my own rules about the line of succession to fit the story I want to tell.

_**Two Years Later** _

Galladon is already tall for his age. Tall and strong and blue-eyed like his mother is how Jaime describes him. The boy’s hair – a shaggy mop of gold curls – has never been cut. He has most of his teeth and more energy than his parents put together. Galladon likes baths and hates parsnips. When he is asked to name his favorite color, he smiles and says, “Mama.” 

When Jaime and Brienne tell Galladon he is going to have a brother or sister soon, the child is uncertain what that means. 

“Uncle Tyrion is my younger brother,” Jaime tells him. He stops short of mentioning Cersei. 

Brienne says, “It means you will always have someone to practice with in the training yard.” 

* 

Jaime and Brienne’s world at Casterly Rock is bright and joyful and brimming with love, but the world beyond the rock is dark and sad and bursting at the seams from hatred. 

Cersei was cursed with a third daughter and no sons. Renly Baratheon was killed and his brother, Stannis, was suspected of having shot the arrow himself. Viserys Targaryen married his young sister to a Dothraki khal in an arrangement that was supposed to supply him with the kind of army that could help him take the Iron Throne. Instead, he is dead and the only daughter of Aerys Targaryen is collecting soldiers. 

Each time a raven arrives, Jaime and Brienne brace themselves for terrible news. It is no different on a chilly morning when Tywin enters the hall to dine on bacon and bread with them, carrying a roll of parchment in his hand. 

“Where is that one from?” Jaime asks him. 

Tywin takes his seat. He shows them the wax seal – a black stag – and breaks it with his thumb. “It’s from Cersei,” he says, unable to hide the surprise and worry in his voice. 

Brienne reaches over and takes hold of Jaime’s hand. 

“She says Robert is dead,” Tywin tells them. He reads the next several sentences to himself before recapping Cersei’s words. “She is pregnant and will take the throne until her son is born and old enough to rule.” 

Jaime looks at Brienne and she shakes her head. He reaches across the table, taking the parchment from his father. He scoots closer to Brienne so that she can read along with him, and he stops to say, “She sounds... unhinged.” 

“We must leave for King’s Landing at once,” Tywin states. 

“No,” Jaime responds. 

“Cersei is family.” 

“My family is here.” 

Tywin pounds his fists on the table, scaring Galladon. “Your sister’s life is surely in danger. Her unborn child, too." 

“ _If_ she is pregnant,” Jaime says, standing to take Galladon into his arms. “If you wish to go, I will arrange soldiers to accompany you.” 

* 

Brienne returns to chambers after bathing, but Jaime is gone. She pulls her robe closed and ties the sash above the slight swell of her belly. The floor is cold beneath her bare feet as she steps into the hallway and takes the short walk to Galladon’s room. She finds Jaime seated beside the boy’s bed. 

“Did he have a bad dream?” she asks. 

He startles then waves her over. “No. I guess you could say _I_ had a bad dream.” 

Brienne rubs his back and whispers, “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Jaime sighs. Shrugs. “All of the Mad King’s male heirs are dead.” 

“Except one,” she finishes his thought. 

He nods. He stands and bends to kiss Galladon’s forehead. Jaime takes Brienne’s hand and pulls her to the hallway, to the common area outside the chambers. “If the wrong person knows the truth about Jon’s parents, they will eliminate him. We know that. But what if someone with good intentions knows?” 

Brienne narrows her eyes, questioning. 

Jaime sits on the nearest chair. “There are many men in Westeros who believe the only true line of succession for the throne is the Targaryen bloodline. There are men who only care that a Baratheon, especially a woman married into the name, does _not_ sit on the throne. There are people who will risk their lives to find a male Targaryen bastard before they let a girl wear the crown. Especially a girl married to a Dothraki. And there are people who simply want what is best for everyone.” 

She stands in front of him, framing his face with her hands. Brienne tilts his head back until he is gazing up at her. “What are you suggesting, Jaime?” 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess... I’m thinking about how there _are_ good people in the world who want a fair and honorable ruler. When I think of the people who are left with a claim to the throne... Cersei, Stannis, a young girl married to a Dothraki kahl... Don’t you think Jon Snow is a better choice than any of them?” 

Brienne sighs. She draws her thumb across his bottom lip and bends to kiss him. “You’re a good man, Jaime. But we’ve discussed this before. Jon’s mother’s dying wish was that he be raised a Stark.” 

He nods. He bows his head, resting his cheek against her stomach. 

* 

The second pregnancy involves less sickness but more odd cravings. Brienne wakes in the middle of the night wanting a kidney pie and the next morning, Jaime commissions the women in the kitchens to make one. He has it brought to his wife in their rooms. 

Brienne has yet to get a particular feeling for the baby’s gender like she did with Galladon, and for that reason she and Jaime often sit in bed tossing girl’s names back and forth. She swallows a bite of the savory pie and carefully suggests, “Joanna?” 

“I always wanted a daughter named for my mother, but it doesn’t feel right anymore. Let my niece carry the name alone.” 

* 

As the baby grows, Galladon’s questions increase. There are times he looks frightened by his mother’s changing body, and Brienne is never so happy as when he bounds into their bed chambers one morning and climbs onto the bed to kiss her belly. 

* 

The seventh moon of Brienne’s pregnancy coincides with a heatwave through the Westerlands. She spends most of her time in the bedroom, naked, and Jaime dips rags in cool water to drape across her forehead. 

* 

Brienne and Jaime leave the Maester’s tower and decide to take a walk through the garden. “I can’t believe Creylen thinks this baby could come early,” Brienne muses, thinking how Galladon was in no rush to be born. 

He sets his hand against her back as she lowers herself onto a bench. “This little one is already pronouncing their singularity,” Jaime notes. 

Their quiet conversation is interrupted when Braedon comes barreling into the garden, too winded to deliver his urgent information. His arms flail at his side as if he can convey the message in gestures. “There... is... an... intruder,” he heaves. 

Jaime stands. “An intruder?” 

“Someone... through a tunnel...” 

“Has this person been detained?” 

Braedon nods. 

Jaime looks to Brienne and says, “I’ll handle this.” 

She clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth and extends her arms. “I’m going with you,” she says, and while Jaime holds onto one hand, Braedon takes the other, and they help her to her feet. 

The Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock walk as quickly as they can to the Great Hall. Two soldiers flank a figure, his head bowed. Jaime guesses from the person’s height and build that their intruder is a young male. “Explain yourself, young man,” Jaime demands. The intruder lifts his head and Brienne emits a small gasp of breath while he whispers, “Jon?” 

“Yes, Ser,” Jon replies. 

He is slightly taller than the last time he visited Casterly Rock, and his hair is curly and hangs to his shoulders. His fingernails are caked in mud and his clothes are dirty. He has a fresh bruise at the corner of his mouth and a mostly healed cut on his left cheek. 

“What happened?” Brienne asks. 

“I remembered the tunnels,” Jon tells them. “I traveled here from Rivverun where I left my brother and sisters.” 

“Left?” Brienne repeats. 

Jon takes a step closer to her. “Lady Brienne,” he says, “it is with a heavy heart that I must tell you some terrible news. Catelyn and my brother Robb are... gone.” He pauses, letting Brienne absorb the information as Jaime puts his arms around her. “My mother left to help Robb and during that time the Greyjoys attacked Winterfell. I escaped with the children and took them to their mother’s family.” 

Brienne moves out of Jaime’s embrace and wraps her arms around Jon. She kisses his temple and says, “I’m so sorry, Jon.” 

“You are welcome here, son,” Jaime says, “but why didn’t you send a raven?” 

Jon looks to the guards at his sides. 

“Gentlemen,” Jaime addresses them, “thank you, but you may take your leave.” 

When they are alone, Jon speaks softly as he reveals, “Ned is not my father. I was born a Targaryen.” He pauses, waiting for their shock. “Considering all the attention on the Iron Throne I did not want anyone to know where I was going.” 

Jaime reaches out to settle both of his hands over the boy’s shoulders. “How did you find out?” he asks. 

“I overheard my fath- I overheard Ned telling Catelyn. All of the fighting. All of the claims to the throne. I’d like to think the two of you are the only souls in the world who know, but I have no way to be sure of that.” 

Brienne asks, “How did you know Catelyn told us?” 

“I didn’t,” Jon admits. “Until now. When you didn’t react.” He looks down at his feet. “I know you have a house and people and children of your own to look after. I don’t want to cause any trouble, but if anyone is out there looking for me, the first place they will go is where my siblings are. May I stay here until I figure something out? I will sleep in the tunnels.” He looks at Jaime, and they both remember something he had said in jest – _Stairs are for peasants. Tunnels are for kings._

Brienne reaches out, drawing the boy into her arms once again. “Nonsense,” she tells him. “We made a promise to keep you safe. You will stay here, in the keep, for as long as you need to.” 

* 

Galladon reminds Jon of his siblings, which is a blessing and a curse. He is grateful for the charming company – playful sparring in the yard, stacking Galladon’s wooden blocks into towers until gravity topples them, stories before bed – but it stirs the guilt he has over abandoning the Stark children. 

“You did not abandon them,” Brienne assures him. 

Jon nods his head but is clearly unconvinced. 

“You took care of them. _Are_ taking care of them.” 

* 

The day Brienne goes into labor, the sky is impossibly blue and bright. She has the birthing bed moved into a room with wide open windows where she is bathed in sunlight and cooled by the pleasant breeze. Jaime worries it will be too cold, eventually, and she reminds him, “Women have been giving birth in the elements since the beginning of time.” 

She will not say giving birth for the second time is easy, but where Galladon took hours upon hours to leave her womb, his sibling hurries into the world. 

“One more big push,” Maester Creylen advises, and Brienne clenches her teeth and squeezes Jaime’s hand and lets loose a guttural cry that is soon overlapped by a newborn’s squall. 

“A boy!” Jaime announces. He bends to kiss Brienne’s sweat-slicked cheek. “Another son!” 

* 

Selwyn was on his way to Casterly Rock before Brienne went into labor, and he arrives the day after the new baby is born. 

“Father,” she says, tilting the boy in her arms so Selwyn can better see his face, “this is Olivar.” They had debated another family name, or an homage to someone important in their lives, but decided on something new. A name that would belong only to their son. 

* 

The only light in the room is the crackling fire; curtains hang heavy over the window, shielding the last threads of daylight. Jaime and Brienne are keeping their chambers perpetually dark to accommodate the odd hours of sleep that go hand in hand with a newborn. 

She sits by the hearth, nursing Olivar, and gazing upon her husband spread across the middle of the bed. He was up most of the previous night comforting a fussy Galladon, and when Olivar rejects her breast after he’s fed enough, she leaves the room to tend to the baby. 

Olivar has only been in their lives for three full days, but already Brienne knows her youngest son loathes being stagnant. He is most content being rocked side to side in her arms or carried as she walks with a slight bounce to her steps. She walks up and down the hallway, patting the boy’s back until she earns an amusingly loud belch from him. 

Movement at the end of the hallway startles Brienne. She clutches one hand to the back of Olivar’s small head, shielding him from perceived harm, until the figure moves into the light. “Jon,” she sighs. 

“I’m sorry, Lady Brienne.” He hangs his head. 

“It’s quite alright, Jon. But there’s no need to lurk in the dark. Is something the matter?” 

Jon shakes his head. “No, nothing. I was only... I was hoping to speak with Ser Jaime.” 

“He’s asleep. Perhaps I can be of some help?” 

He considers the offer and smiles. He walks closer and gets a good look at Olivar when Brienne transfers him from her chest to her arms, cradling him. “Does he look like Galladon did when he was born?” 

“He’s quite a bit smaller, actually. I think he’s going to have Jaime’s eyes.” Brienne begins to comment on the shape of their noses but pauses, sensing Jon is troubled by something. She says, “I doubt you came to speak with Ser Jaime about babies. What’s on your mind, Jon?” 

The young man takes a deep breath. He drags a hand through his hair, grown nearly to his shoulders. “I’ve made a decision. I cannot inconvenience you and Ser Jaime any longer. I’m going to take the black.” 

Brienne stops rocking Olivar. “Oh. Jon. That is an admirable step to take, but I’m not sure you realize-” 

“I know what it means, Lady Brienne,” he tells her, and in that moment, he looks and sounds like a much older, confident man. “If I stay here, I could be putting all of you in danger. If I go to Riverrun, my siblings may not be safe. I’m not a Stark and I don’t want to be a Targaryen. I’m not a Lannister either. I need to make my own place in the world.” 

“Selfishly, I want to talk you out of the Night’s Watch. But I would never hold you back from something you want. All I ask, Jon, is that you talk to Jaime tomorrow. And if you still want to take the black, we will take you to Castle Black ourselves.” 

* 

_**King’s Landing**_

Tywin hears the unmistakable bellows of labor pains. He stomps toward the two towering, stone-faced members of the Queensguard blocking the doors to Cersei’s chambers. He does not expect to gain entrance into the room, but he asks for the Maester to be called out to answer his questions. The guards act as though they cannot hear him. He gives up and slumps into a chair at the end of the hallway. 

On the other side of the doors, Cersei screams and sweats and bleeds until she hears the high-pitched squeals of a newborn baby. Her head falls back against the pillows. She is woozy but has the presence of mind to ask, “Is it a boy? Do I have a son?” 

The Maester stands beside her, cradling the baby. “A daughter,” he tells her. “I will clean her and you can hol-” 

“No,” Cersei says, turning her head away and squeezing her eyes closed. “I had a son.” 

The Maester is the only other person in the room, per Cersei’s orders. He places the baby down and leans over the Queen. “Your grace, the child is a girl,” he whispers, gentle, thinking she is delirious. 

She opens her eyes and glowers at him. Her hand finds his, and her grip is remarkably strong for a woman in her condition. “I had a son. That is what you will tell my father and the Hand and all of King’s Landing. You will not permit anyone to see the child when I am not present. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, your grace. You had a son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to everyone for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. This is by far the longest story I have ever written, be it fanfic or original content. I'm so happy other people actually want to read it!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tragedy puts Jaime, Brienne, and Jon on the road to King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading and letting me know what you think with a comment or kudos. I never expected this story to go on for this many chapters but I realized it was going to take a lot to get to the ending I have had in mind since I started. Thank you for sticking with it!
> 
> This chapter may seem rushed, as it covers a couple weeks in a short amount of paragraphs. But I'm eager to get to the next series of events!

Jaime expects Brienne to be asleep when he returns from a last-minute meeting with Ser Benedict. Instead he finds her sitting up in bed, nursing Olivar while Galladon sleeps at her feet. 

“What did Sir Benedict have to say?” she asks in a whisper. 

“We’re sending more men to the North.” He climbs, gently, onto the bed. He kisses the top of Olivar’s head. “I was given this,” Jaime says, showing her a roll of parchment. 

Brienne tenses. “What does it say?” 

“Cersei birthed a son. She named him Tommen and plans to formally introduce him as the future King in a ceremony to be held two moons from now.” 

“And your father expects all of us to be there?” she guesses. 

Jaime crumples the parchment and tosses it aside. 

She feels Olivar’s mouth slip away from her breast. She urges him to latch again. He refuses and Brienne says, “I suppose he’s had enough,” as she swaddles the baby in a soft blanket. 

Jaime gazes at her cradling their son against her chest. He wonders if he’s mistaking her exhaustion for sadness; she seems distracted and dismal. “Would you like me to take him?” 

Brienne responds with a slight shake of her head. After a beat she says, “Jon came looking for you.” 

“Oh?” 

“He intends to take the black.” 

Jaime briefly closes his eyes. 

“I told him I would never talk him out of something he wants to do but said he should speak to you before he commits to the idea.” 

“Yes. Good,” Jaime says, thinking of the young age at which he swore himself to the Kingsguard. He catches the way Brienne stifles a yawn and he settles his hand on her thigh. “Much as I love our boys, I wouldn’t mind a night of uninterrupted sleep with only my wife beside me. Shall I take the boys to bed?” 

She considers the question before nodding her agreement. 

Jaime tilts to the side, dropping a kiss to her cheek before he gingerly takes Olivar from her arms to his. “I’ll be back for him,” he says, nodding to where their oldest is curled up at the foot of the bed. He leaves the room and pads down the dark hallway. He raps his knuckles on the door to the room Olivar shares with Rose. After a moment she calls for him to enter. “We’d like him to sleep here for the night,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind?” 

She smiles at his politeness. “Of course not, Ser Jaime. It is my job, after all. An easy one at that. Olivar is quite a delightful boy.” 

“Yes, he is,” Jaime says. He turns away from her to place the baby in the bassinet. He bends down and presses a soft kiss to Olivar’s head when a strangled noise alarms him. He straightens his spine and turns around to see a man standing behind Rose with a hand clamped over her mouth. The man is wearing Lannister colors, but in an act of betrayal he throws the lithe young woman aside, her head smacking on the wall. She crumples to the floor and Jaime’s hand instinctively goes to his hip, but he’s not wearing his scabbard and has no sword. 

The stranger closes in on Jaime and he blocks the bassinet with his body. “Explain yourself,” he says, and he has to move quickly to deflect a punch to the jaw. He lunges at the man, driving him back and against the wall. He manages to clutch the man by the throat, pinning him in place as his other hand launches punch after punch to his attacker’s gut. But Jaime is rendered powerless when a second intruder appears, also dressed like a Lannister soldier, and pries him away. 

Jaime grunts as he struggles to break free. He doesn’t want to call out; if Brienne and Galladon are unharmed in their bed chambers, he does not want to bring them into the danger. Yet he must protect his son and screams for help, hoping to attract the nearest guards before Brienne. 

Despite the chaos, he is certain the men are imposters. He doesn’t know the face of every soldier in their garrison, but something about these men is off. He manages to break free but to fight one, Jaime must turn his back to the other. An arm clamps around his neck and in the struggle, he gets a look at his attacker’s hand. The last thing he sees before something heavy and hard makes contact with the back of his head is a ring on the man’s finger. The sigil carved into the silver is a stag. 

Jaime’s body hits the floor. In the moments before darkness descends, his final thought is _Cersei_. 

* 

Brienne’s eyes flutter open. She feels Galladon’s weight curled around her leg and looks to the other side of the bed, finding it empty. She isn’t sure if she fell asleep for a matter of minutes or hours, but within seconds of waking she feels unsettled. Jaime has yet to return and never took Galldon to his own bed. 

She extricates herself from her son’s hold without waking him. Brienne pulls her robe closed and tightens the sash. She begins to leave the room and backtracks to get her sword, the metal glinting as she carries it with her into the dark hallway. 

The flames that should be lighting the space have been extinguished, and Brienne almost crashes to the ground when she trips over something. She looks down and realizes the obstruction is a guard named Robart. Her panic rises, spiking her heartbeat. She steps over the man and walks along the wall, trembling when she can see that Olivar’s door is ajar and a soft pool of light spills out from the room. 

Brienne gasps when her eyes land on Jaime, his body prone on the floor. She rushes to the bassinet, and even though she can see it’s empty, her hands grab at the linens and feel for the baby. “Help! Help us!” she screams, and it is Selwyn – roused from sleep in his chambers – that arrives first. 

“Galladon!” Brienne shouts, sending her father to protect the boy. She tells the next pair of guards to arrive, “The baby is gone,” and they take off in opposite directions. 

She bends to the floor and presses her fingers to Jaime’s neck, relieved to feel the beat of a pulse. She rolls him over and cradles his head on her lap. 

“Lady Bri-” Jon stops short at the doorway, rendered speechless by the sight before him. He bolts into the room and drops to his knees on the other side of Jaime’s body. “W-what happened?” 

“Stay with him,” she instructs Jon, running from the room. Running to find her baby. 

* 

Braedon escorts Brienne to the scene of the crime after she searches nearly every corner of Casterly Rock. Her face shines with sweat and her cheeks and nose are red from exertion and tears. She sees Jaime sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. She rushes to him as he tries to stand, and they meet in the middle – kneeling, arms tangled around one another, sobbing and shaking. 

It smells sour in the room, and she looks over Jaime’s shoulder to see he’s gotten sick at least once. Mindful of his injuries, she lets go and encourages him to sit again. She curls up beside him as he repeats a litany of, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Brienne holds him, kisses his temple. “You did nothing wrong,” she whispers. 

“Galladon!" 

She tightens her hold on Jaime and says, “My father is with him,” and feels him relax slightly. “I tried to... I tried to find...” 

Jaime turns his face into her chest. His words vibrate against her skin when he says, “They took Rose too. It was two men. Dressed like Lannister soldiers.” 

It was how they got in, she knows, and how they planned to get out. With Olivar. “Everyone is looking,” she says, her words a mere tremble of breath. 

“Cersei,” Jaime chokes on the vile name. 

Brienne stiffens. “What?” 

He tilts his head back to look her in the eyes. “One of the men. He had a ring. A stag. Baratheon.” 

“Why? Why would...” 

“I don’t think she means to harm him,” Jaime says, and when Brienne glares at him in disbelief he explains, “My sister is cruel, yes. But I’ve known many forms of madness. Aerys hurt people as sport. That is not Cersei. Her actions have a purpose. Usually to benefit her. If she told them to take Rose, it’s so Olivar has someone to care for him on the road. I think Cersei needs him.” 

Brienne sits back on her haunches. “Why would she need _our_ son other than to hurt us?” she asks. 

“I’m not convinced she was ever pregnant. But she’s desperate for a son.” 

* 

The Maester applies a salve to Jaime’s wound, wraps a bandage around his head, and makes him drink tea that leaves a chalky film on his tongue. Throughout, Jaime asks after his wife. No one can tell him where Brienne is and when he swallows the dregs of the tea, he gets up and charges across the room to find her. 

“Ser Jaime, you need to rest,” Maester Creylen tells him. 

“Fuck rest,” he shouts in return, shoving the door open. He ignores a spell of dizziness as he climbs a flight of stairs, and looks around to make sure no one witnesses the way he veers sideways into the wall as he reaches the top. 

Jaime runs to the solar, bypassing a concerned Braedon. The door to the bed chambers is open and the soles of his boots skid on the floor as he bolts into the room. He finds Selwyn seated by the window, Galladon asleep on his lap, and Brienne is standing by the hearth in a full suit of armor. 

She points to the bed where various articles of clothing are laid out – tunic, gambeson, chainmail. “My father will stay here with Galladon,” Brienne tells him, her voice breaking as she says her oldest son’s name. 

Jaime’s eyes well with tears. Of course, she is already armed and armored, ready to reclaim their child. He can tell Brienne did not arrive at the decision lightly; she is pained to leave Galladon, but they both know he will be safe with Selwyn. 

“I’ve sent men to King’s Landing via River Road and Blackwater Rush. We will take the Goldroad,” she goes on to say. 

“I’m going with you,” Jon announces from the doorway, drawing their attention to where he stands. 

Brienne turns to him, holding her hand up. “We thank you, Jon, but you’ll be of more help here. With Galladon.” 

Jon shakes his head. “I’m a better fighter now. Thanks to Ser Jaime. And I can...” 

“What?” she asks. 

Behind them, Jaime frantically layers himself in protective clothing. He calls for Braedon to help with his armor. 

“I heard Ser Benedict instructing the garrison. You think Cersei had Olivar taken because she needs a male heir to keep control of the throne. I’m the rightful heir.” 

“Jon,” Brienne whispers, and Jaime jerks away from Braedon to stand by her side, holding his last piece of armor. 

Jon stands taller and holds his head high. “Olivar will be of no use to Cersei if someone else has a proper claim to the throne.” 

“We need him to be of use to her,” Jaime says, sounding angrier toward the boy than he intended. 

“Of course. I only meant... when we find him, we can negotiate.” 

“How?” Brienne asks, growing impatient as they lose precious seconds they could spend chasing after Olivar. 

“I don’t know. Yet. I could marry Cersei. I could-” 

Jaime grunts his disapproval. He sheathes his sword and says, “We can discuss it on the road,” giving Jon permission to join them. 

* 

Brienne doesn’t want Galladon to be frightened. She maintains her composure as they say goodbye to their son, but as their horses trot out of the gate, she unleashes her grief in a guttural cry. Jaime directs his horse to sidle up beside hers, and he leans over to wrap Brienne in an embrace, their armor clashing. 

Jon looks on from his stallion, helpless. 

She allows herself a moment of sorrow before they gallop away. 

* 

The first several miles are quiet as they ride under a dusky sky. The sun begins to show itself over the horizon as Brienne feels her chest swell beneath her breastplate. She reluctantly says they must stop, and they hitch the horses to trees where they can hear the rush of the nearest river. 

She goes deeper into the woods and removes several pieces of her armor. She peels away her mail and gambeson to see her tunic is damp with milk. Brienne sits on the ground and expels the liquid, wasting it on the weeds and dirt. 

Jaime follows the path she took and stops a short distance away. He sees her bare, broad back as she sits on the ground naked from the waist up. He can hear stifled sobs and his chest tightens, aching for her. “Brienne,” he says softly, alerting her to his presence. 

She sniffles and looks at him sideways as he sits down beside her. “What if Rose can’t feed him?” 

Jaime rubs his hand up and down the curve of her spine. “She will. And if she can’t she will know what to do for him,” he assures her. 

Brienne sucks in a shaky breath and her head collapses against Jaime’s shoulder. “If we don’t get him back soon... I won’t be able to feed him anymore.” 

He closes his eyes. “We are going to find him.” 

* 

The time on the road is mostly riding and searching for any sign of the men, Rose, and Olivar. They sustain themselves on very little sleep and food, and with each passing day Brienne has less and less need to stop and expel the milk swelling her breasts. It inflames her anger and spurs her onward. 

Passing through towns, they ask the people at taverns and markets if they have seen Lannister or Baratheon men with a woman and infant. The answer is always no until one evening Jon rushes across the sticky floor of a tavern, dragging a man with him, and announces, “He saw them! He says he saw them.” 

Jaime buys the man a fresh horn of ale and they listen to his story about hearing a baby’s cries one night through the thin walls of an inn. “In the morning,” he says, “I saw a man shove a lady into the room. Like she’d been trying to get away. I heard the baby crying again.” 

Brienne’s teeth pinch her bottom lip until she tastes the metallic tang of blood. 

The man goes on to say that later, when one of his travel companions left to check in on the lady, he never returned. “Found him that night nearly sliced in half.” 

Jaime squeezes Brienne’s hand under the table. 

* 

Now and then Jon broaches the subject of how he can be of use in freeing Olivar from Cersei if they do not find the boy before he reaches King’s Landing. They stop near a river to clean up as he suggests taking the throne and promising to marry one of Cersei’s daughters when they come of age. 

“Being near the throne won’t be enough for her,” Jaime says as they dismount their horses. 

Jon drinks from the waterskin and tells them, “You can go first. I’ll stay here.” 

Jaime and Brienne walk to the river, quietly discussing their concern over Jon. They are somewhat relieved he has let go of the idea of taking the black, but would almost prefer it to his dangerous ideas of marrying Cersei or somehow tying himself to her. 

Jaime strips down to his breeches and offers to keep watch while she goes to the river’s edge. At first, she only kneels and cups water into her hands to splash her face. Soon he sees that she removes her boots, tunic, and breeches, walking into the water with only a long, sleeveless shift covering her. Jaime feels a sense of shame when his cock twitches, and he forces his eyes to survey their surroundings rather than Brienne. 

He is drawn to her, though, and walks closer to the water. His breath hitches when she submerges herself and resurfaces, her hair wet and the shift clinging to her skin. It’s been over a week since Jaime and Brienne were intimate, and he is almost relieved to know that sadness cannot temper his desire for her. He is hard and straining in his breeches when she emerges from the water, walking toward him. The shift reveals the shape of her breasts and the outline of rosy, pebbled flesh. The material puckers between her thighs and he remembers the feel of her soft skin. The memory of her taste floods his mouth. 

Brienne stands before him, aware of his tented breeches. 

“I’m sorry,” he confesses, dropping his chin to his chest and closing his eyes. He flinches when he feels her fingers clasp his chin, encouraging him to look at her. 

“Why?” she asks. 

Jaime looks at the beads of water shining on her face. “We are looking for our son. We had to leave Galladon. This is not... this is not a time for... I should not be...” 

Brienne sighs. She takes a step closer and frames his face with her damp hands. “I love you, Jaime,” she says. “And I miss you.” 

He draws her into his arms and can’t press close enough to her. They stumble blindly until her back hits the firm support of a tree trunk, the bark scraping the patches of skin her shift doesn’t cover. She hikes the wet material up toward her hips as Jaime releases himself from the confines of his breeches. He hooks his hand under her knee, drawing her leg up, and guides himself to the tight heat of her cunt. 

He drops his head to her shoulder, her flesh muting Jaime’s grunt as he pushes into her, his teeth marking her skin. He thrusts wildly, fucking her with the combined intensity of all his pain and longing and need. His hips slow after a time and he meets her gaze. “Am I hurting you?” he asks. 

Brienne shakes her head. The tears in her eyes are not from physical pain, and he understands that, but Jaime gentles his movements. Their arms tighten around one another and she is grateful for the sturdy tree and her husband’s embrace and the hope their love sparks in her heart. She shatters, pinned between the rough texture of the tree and the damp heat of Jaime’s flesh, moaning her release. 

He moves faster when her hands drop to grip his backside, urging the speed and whispering words of encouragement. He holds himself against her, his body stiff as he shudders and spills into her. Jaime shakes in the wake of his pleasure – shivering from the cold, from their coupling, from his despair – and Brienne cradles him in her arms as they sink down to the grass a tangled heap of limbs. 

* 

They skin and cook a rabbit and let Jon slumber on the grass for a brief time, but Brienne wants to be on the road again before dark. 

“I’m ready,” Jon says, hiding a yawn behind his hand. He clears his throat. “I’ll be fine. We should go.” 

Brienne gives him the waterskin while she readies her horse. She notices Jon’s eyes narrow as he looks between the trees. 

“We have company,” the young man warns his companions as he climbs atop his horse. 

Jaime and Brienne are not wearing their armor, but they both have their swords at their hips. They stand together in front of Jon as a group of men on horseback near them. It is Jaime who first notices the flag waving above their heads and he whispers through the corner of his mouth, “Bolton.” 

The men bring their horses to a halt. The man at the front – pale, scarred face and a dark, unkempt beard – is the first to speak. “We heard there was a family camping in our woods,” he says. 

“I didn’t realize House Bolton had any ownership over these parts,” Jaime replies, his eyes flicking to the Flayed Man sigil on their banner. 

The man grins. “I’m John Locke. And you are?” 

“It’s them!” one of the bannerman says, and he nudges his horse forward. 

Locke looks at him. “Them who?” 

Jaime and Brienne share a look. They recognize the man as well. He was the only survivor of the group of Bolton bandits they attacked for robbing a pregnant woman and her husband. 

The man says, “The beauty and his beast.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne face Locke and other disasters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a longer break between chapters this time - I had been staying ahead by several but life got in the way. They will probably be spread out a bit more due to annoying things like my job, but also because I have a couple other things I want to work on. Thank you to everyone for sticking with the story and leaving kudos/comments! 
> 
> Another note: Locke appears in this chapter and there is a brief threat of rape, but nothing graphic happens.

“They killed Barrow and Stout!” 

Jaime denies the man’s claim, shaking his head and taking a brave step closer to them. “We never killed anyone,” he says while Brienne turns to Jon and quietly commands him, “Go!” 

The young man hesitates but the look on Brienne’s face says all he needs to know – find Olivar – and he takes off on his own. 

Jon’s escape sends Locke and his men into action. There are too many of them for Jaime and Brienne to be able to mount their horses and ride to safety without a fight. They make a valiant effort, nearly beheading one man and mortally wounding another. But when a tall, stout fellow disarms Jaime, it distracts Brienne and she ends up face-down on the ground. She could overtake the gangly man attempting to hold her down, but despite her husband’s insistence she fight, she surrenders to keep him safe. 

“You’re the Kingslayer,” Locke says. “Jaime Lannister.” He turns to face Brienne as two men drag her up from the ground. “And are you his whore?” 

“I’m the Lady of Casterly Rock,” she sneers. 

Locke laughs. “That means nothing to me. Lord Bolton is sworn to House Stark and there are none of them left.” 

* 

Jaime and Brienne are each bound at the wrists and riding back to back with one of their captors, shackled to the men by rope. Locke has made it impossible for them to conspire in whispers or take comfort in their closeness, and for a torturous period of time they cannot even see one another. Jaime calls out, agonized, and nearly cries tears of relief when Brienne answers back, “I’m okay, Jaime!” 

As darkness swallows the sky, the men slow to a stop and make camp in the woods. They secure Jaime to the trunk of a tree, his back pressed against the bark and legs splayed in front of him. His heart hammers in his chest as he watches the men contemplate Brienne, and he is momentarily comforted when she is tied to a tree across from him – close enough that when she stretches her legs out, the soles of their boots touch. 

The men scatter about, building fires and capturing rabbits to skin and roast. There is enough distance between them all that Jaime and Brienne are able to speak in hushed tones, speculating on Jon’s whereabouts and well-being and concocting a plan to make their escape. An obvious route, Jaime says, is offering Locke – the clear leader – all the Lannister gold he could ever want. They are able to surmise from chatter that Roose Bolton has been declared Ward of the North and wonder if promising Jon wants no claim to Winterfell could buy them his favor. 

The unspoken fear hanging thick in the air between them is whether or not their captors have enough honor not to rape a noble woman, wife, and mother. It sickens Jaime to even speculate, but when he senses the men are finishing their supper, he holds Brienne’s gaze and says, “If they take you... I'm afraid they will kill you if you fight. I don't know wh-” He is rendered silent by the pallor of her face and the way her brow furrows and her lips curl into a grimace of worry and disgust. “I’m sorry, I don't know what... I can't lose you.” Tears streak the dirt on his face. 

Locke approaches, two others shadowing him, and mocks their whispered voices. He claims to have been pondering the best way to punish them and take vengeance for how ruthlessly they murdered his friends. He stares at Brienne and says, “I’ve never been with such a big woman.” 

Jaime swallows back the bile stinging his throat and Brienne sits up straight against the tree trunk. 

Locke turns his attention to Jaime. He unsheathes a large blade from the scabbard hiding beneath his heavy cloak. It shines in the dark as he says, “And you, Kingslayer. I could take your sword hand.” 

After a beat of silence Jaime responds, “I’m not that man anymore. I’m the Lord of Casterly Rock. But go on, take my hand. Nothing is worse than what has already been taken from me.” 

Locke is interested in what Jaime has to say, but his attention is pulled back toward Brienne. Two of the others stare at her chest where a small amount of milk has leaked and dampened her pale gray tunic. 

She squirms under their leers and fights the emotion burning in her lungs and eyes. It is probably the last of her milk, and she cannot nourish her son with it. It is wasted on the vulgar gaze of Bolton bannermen. “We have a son,” she explains. “He was taken from us. We are trying to find him.” 

“You can have your weight in Lannister gold,” Jaime offers. “Please, let us go.” 

Locke is quiet for a long while, glancing back and forth between his two prisoners. 

“And sapphires,” Jaime shouts. “Brienne is of Tarth. The Sapphire Island. It doesn’t only get its name because of the color of the water. Every sapphire in Westeros is mined from it.” 

Locke contemplates all that has been said and finally announces, “We will take you to Harrenhal. Lord Bolton can help.” The smile on his face is anything but reassuring. 

* 

Jon has no concept of time. He feels like he’s been alone on the road for days, but the lack of color in the sky tells him it has only been a matter of hours. 

He tries to ignore the rumble in his stomach, wishing he could ride straight to King’s Landing without stopping. But when he feels dizzy, he knows he isn't doing himself or Olivar any favors. 

With the knowledge Ned had passed on, Jon recognizes the plump red berries on a tree are not poisonous. He captures a rabbit and unsheathes his dagger to skin it when he hears the crunch of boots on leaves. He hops to his feet and is in a fighting stance when a disheveled man lunges at him. With the knowledge Jaime imparted, Jon defeats his attacker in a matter of minutes. 

* 

Harrenhal is a bleak castle set against an equally bleak backdrop of perpetual gray skies and fog. Jaime hopes he can appeal to Roose Bolton as one Lord to another. One father and husband to another. He is grateful when the man orders the bannerman to untie Jaime and Brienne, referring to them as guests rather than prisoners. 

“Come with me,” he says, promising warmth and food. He looks at Brienne and tells her, “I’ll have something clean brought to you.” 

Later, when she rejoins Jaime at the dining table, he realizes the something clean Roose referred to was something appropriate for a Lady. His eyes widen at the sight of his wife in a hideous pink dress with a long, heavy skirt and laces drawn tightly along the length of her spine. He stands from his seat and reaches for her hand. 

“Don’t say a word,” she whispers through the corner of her mouth as they sit side by side at the table. She continues to hold his hand, only letting go when Jaime has difficulty cutting his meat with one hand. 

They thank Roose for his hospitality and explain how their youngest son was taken from Casterly Rock. Rather than accuse the Queen of kidnapping, Jaime concocts a story about having upset members of the Queensguard during a recent visit and suspecting the men – of their own accord – took Olivar. Brienne bumps her knee against Jaime’s thigh under the table when he begins to drone on too long, making the tale less believable. 

The conversation is careful, but Brienne stresses the urgency of getting back on the road to reclaim their baby. “He is newly born and still fed from my breast,” she says, looking to Bolton’s wife seated beside him. 

Roose dismisses his wife and stands from his seat. “I’m sorry for your plight, Lady Brienne. In the morning I will give you a horse and enough sustenance for several days on the road.” 

Brienne smiles and thanks him, looking to Jaime with a genuine smile. 

* 

The night is long, the two of them trying to sleep on a narrow bedroll in a dank, unfurnished room with a man standing guard outside the thin door. Jaime grouses, “Why can’t he send us off now,” and Brienne reminds him they must be complacent to avoid being delayed even longer. 

Eventually they know it’s morning when the door is pushed open and a man says, “It’s time.” 

They scramble to their feet and follow the man down the hallway and two sets of stairs until they are in the courtyard. Brienne sees only her sword and scabbard, one horse, and one sack packed with clothing, bread, and a waterskin. Before she can question why only one horse for the both of them, she hears a grunt of pain behind her and turns to see Jaime being restrained. “What is happening?” she demands. 

Locke appears and Roose explains, “I told my men Tarth has no sapphires.” 

“I’d rather see the Kingslayer fight for his life than be rich with Lannister gold,” Locke says. 

“I don’t understand,” Brienne cries. 

Roose picks up the bag and holds it toward her. “I have no reason to hold you prisoner, Lady Brienne. I will not execute a woman. But someone has to pay for murdering my men.” 

She looks at Jaime, his arms forcefully wrenched behind his back. He doesn’t have to speak a word for her to know what he is saying, what he is asking of her. But Brienne mournfully tells him, “No, Jaime. I can’t leave you here.” 

“We cannot leave our sons with no parents,” he says quietly, tears shining in his eyes. 

Brienne’s face crumples and she lifts her hands to cover herself. She holds her breath, restraining her sobs. 

“I love you,” Jaime tells her. 

“Take him,” Roose orders. 

She drops her arms to her sides and watches as the men begin to drag Jaime away. She grabs her sword, unable to resist the instinct to fight. She catches up to them and Roose signals for the men to pause. “Go, Brienne,” Jaime whispers. “You need to find Olivar.” 

She lets the sword slip from her hand and frames his face, wiping at his tears. Her mouth opens but she cannot form any words. There are too many she needs and wants to say, and not enough time. “I love you, Jaime,” Brienne cries, and the sentiment seems too paltry for the moment and for how important their relationship is to her. 

The men resume dragging Jaime away and up a rickety flight of wooden stairs, but he keeps his eyes locked on Brienne until he is forced inside the castle. 

* 

Brienne affixes her scabbard and sword around her waist. She mounts the horse and rides toward the gate. There is no time to change out of the dress – no time for vanity or comfort. 

She tugs on the reigns and the horse comes to a stop. Brienne closes her eyes. She thinks about the empty vows she and Jaime recited at their first marriage ceremony and the oaths they made years later. The promises they meant with all their hearts and intended to keep. She is his. He is hers. 

Standing in the sept, Brienne told Jaime it didn’t matter how they had come together, only that they had. She fell in love with him and their love created a family and a home and friendships. She remembers Jaime talking about conflicting vows, how they are forced to make so many that eventually you have to break one to keep the others. Brienne was promised to Jaime, but she was promised to her sons as well. 

Precious seconds are ticking away, but she cannot bring herself to leave alone. She once told Jaime that despite finding him loathsome at first, she could no longer imagine life without him. It is impossible to. Behind her closed eyes, Brienne sees them with their children – with Galladon and Olivar, but many others as well – and decides a world does not exist where they are not all together. 

The sound of cheering and shouting makes her eyes snap open. “Jaime,” she breathes into the cold, misty air, and dismounts the horse. 

She grabs fistfuls of the dress, lifting the hem from the ground as she runs. She follows the sounds up the same set of weathered stairs Jaime was forced to climb and winds her way up and up to where she sees Locke and a gaggle of men standing in a circle. They are looking down at something, and when she wedges her way in between two of the onlookers, she sees Jaime below. He is holding a wooden sword and his opponent is a large, fierce bear. 

“What are you doing?” she cries out, her eyes finding Locke. 

“Don’t worry,” Locke tells her. “Your Kingslayer is the best fighter in Westeros.” 

“You gave him a wooden sword!” 

Locke casts a glance down into the pit. “Ah, well, yes. This should be interesting.” 

Brienne quickly appraises the audience and finds a man with a bow and arrow. She darts to him, promising gold and protection, and he fires an arrow at the bar. She looks down as the bear stands on its hind legs and roars. The arrow did little good and she sees Jaime stumble back, realizing he has three bloody gashes near his neck from the bear’s claws. Without another thought she maneuvers to climb down the short ladder and jumps the rest of the way into the pit. 

Jaime senses the commotion and chances a quick glance over his shoulder. “Brienne!” he says, his tone scolding. But there is no time to argue the merits of her decision; the bear pounces and Jaime extends the sword. The bear bats it out of his hands and Brienne steps forward, slashing across the animal’s stomach. The wound seems to distract the bear, and when the man launches another arrow from above, it buys them time. 

“Go!” Brienne yells, grabbing Jaime’s arm and pulling him with her to the wall. He bends to give her something to step on, making it possible for her to grab the ladder and pull herself up. She climbs the rest of the way and several men pull her out. She immediately turns and hangs over the top of the pit, watching as Jaime clings to the wall, climbing until she can grab him and pull him to safety. 

They spend a moment clinging to one another on the ground before Brienne scrambles to her feet, reaching down for Jaime’s hand. She pulls him up and looks at Locke. “He comes with me,” she sneers, and the two of them begin to walk away, the man with the bow and arrow following after them. 

* 

The three of them ride out of the gate and once they are a safe distance away, Jaime brings his horse to an abrupt halt. He dismounts and waits for Brienne to turn around and do the same. 

Standing across from one another, he points to the Bolton man still on his horse and asks, “Who is that man?” 

“He helped me save your life,” Brienne says. “I promised him gold. It won’t hurt us to have someone else on the road. And someone else’s weapon.” 

Jaime sighs. “What were you thinking?” 

“I was thinking I could not let you die.” 

“You put your life at risk! You risked leaving Olivar in Cersei’s hands! And Galladon without a father and a mother.” 

“I couldn’t leave you, Jaime. I would have never forgiven myself if I had left you to die. And you would have. I never doubted we would escape in one piece.” 

Jaime shakes his head. “How could you be so sure?” 

“Because we promised to love and protect one another. Because we are strong and capable on our own but we are unstoppable together. Because I fucking love you, Jaime Lannister, and I intend to keep every promise I’ve ever made.” 

His anger recedes, replaced by a smile. He grabs Brienne and opens his mouth against hers in a quick but heated, meaningful kiss. “They are going to write songs about you,” Jaime tells her. 

“About us.” 

“Let’s go find our son,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wanted to play with the concept that people are fated to certain things in any universe, so since the first chapter I intended to have Jaime and Brienne encounter Locke. But I decided that for this version of Jaime, losing a hand wouldn't have the same impact. I decided instead to use the bear and play with their non-traditional gender roles by making Jaime the damsel in distress and Brienne the one to rescue him.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne arrive in King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an extremely short chapter. I liked the idea of ending it on a bit of a cliffhanger rather than a typical conversation, etc. The remaining chapters are plotted out, and I hope all the various plot points (most of them rather nonsensical, I'm sure) don't take away from the story and characters.

The world is cloaked in the dark of night but Brienne knows they are mere miles from crossing into King’s Landing. She can feel her son’s presence – her chest aches with longing even as her heart swells with the joy of being nearer to him. She promises Jaime that Olivar is well, but she cannot say the same of Jon. 

Brienne knows the boy would not have wanted to stop long enough for her and Jaime to catch up to him. Part of her wishes he had lost some of his bravery and made a detour to Riverrun to be with the Stark children. She fears him dead or, even worse, pledged to Cersei. 

“Did you hear me?” Jaime asks, riding alongside her. 

She shakes her head. “No, I was... what did you say?” 

“I said I don’t think we should go any further until daylight. I think we should forego our armor and arrive as members of House Penrose. We should hope to go unrecognized. We are merely here to bow to the Queen and pay respect to the future king.” 

Brienne considers his suggestion and then nods. “I agree.” 

“I think we have to meet with the High Septon.” 

Her face registers with understanding. If Cersei is charged with being unfaithful to Robert, and the heir’s paternity is brought into question, she can be arrested. “Yes. Once we know Olivar is okay.” 

* 

Jaime buys bread and figs as they walk their horses along the busy streets, a bright sun shining down on the smallfolk. He comes upon a woman selling garments and is able to put a clean tunic under his jerkin. He finds a cloak for Brienne and she is able to turn it into something of a sash, hiding where her tunic has ripped. There is not a thread of Lannister red or gold to be found. They are able to piece together armor for the Bolton man, Harald, to pose as their sole man-at-arms. 

Having fed and altered their appearance, the trio rides toward The Red Keep. Jaime is not surprised to be met with resistance at the gates, and after announcing himself and Brienne, he asks for Tywin rather than Cersei. 

The three of them are taken to the Gatehouse and a short time later Tywin arrives. He appears flustered by their presence, angry at the surprise yet pleased by the gesture. “What’s this I hear of Lord and Lady Penrose?” he asks, and is not given an answer. “Did you send a raven?” 

Jaime begins to respond when his eyes are drawn to the glint of gold near his father’s shoulder. “Cersei made you Hand of the Queen?” he asks. 

Tywin squares his shoulders. “Yes.” 

“What happened to Jon Arryn?” Brienne chimes in. 

“He passed.” 

Jaime and Brienne share a look and he asks, “How?” 

“He was an old man, Jaime,” Tywin says sternly. “You did not bring the children?” 

Jaime grabs his wife’s hand. “Not this time. We thought Olivar is far too young for the road and he’s well taken care of with his wet nurse.” 

“May we see Cersei and the baby?” Brienne asks, her voice cracking. She sounds too eager and feels Jaime’s thumb push against her palm – _wait_. “When the time is right, of course.” She wants to ask about Jon, too, but it’s dangerous to bring the boy into the conversation if he’s not made himself known. 

* 

Tywin leaves them in the courtyard to meet with Cersei. Not long after, four members of the Queensguard Jaime does not recognize arrive. He and Brienne cling to one another, but as Harald is overwhelmed, they are too. Stripped of their scabbards and swords, left defenseless, they are dragged into the depths of the castle. 

“Oh, gods,” Brienne cries aloud when they come upon a row of prisons built into the dungeon walls. Three men and two women – gaunt and pale – are locked behind the bars. The only relief is that she does not see Jon among them. 

She is jerked forward, dragged to a separate cage and thrown inside with Jaime. The men lock them inside and leave as Jaime shouts, “I am the Queen’s brother! Send my father!” His pleas go ignored, and he reaches for Brienne, collapsing against her. 

They share a private moment, embracing and crying, before turning to their fellow prisoners. A young woman curls her bony fingers around the bars and asks, “Did you question the baby, too?” 

Brienne leans against the bars, as close to the girl as she can get. “The Queen’s new son?” 

The girl nods. “Robert. He is-” 

A man behind her shouts, “Quiet, girl!” and another says, “We’re already locked up. What harm can she do talking?” 

“He is not like his sisters,” the girl goes on to say. 

A tear slips along the curve of Brienne’s cheek. “Is he healthy?” 

“Yes, my Lady.” 

Jaime comes up behind Brienne and rests his hand on her shoulder. “Have you seen a young man about this high?” he asks, holding his hand just below his shoulder. “Long, dark hair.” 

“Handsome,” Brienne adds. 

The others shrug and shake their heads. 

* 

The rattle of the bars wakes Jaime first. He lifts his head from Brienne’s shoulder and sees his father. He squeezes his wife’s arm as he climbs to his feet. They are taken away from the others but Tywin blocks the only staircase and says, “Cersei seems to think you mean her harm.” 

“Why?” Jaime asks, not convinced he can trust Tywin with the truth. 

“She says Olivar did not survive and you are here to-” 

Jaime has to hold Brienne back from lunging at his father. “She is mistaken.” 

Tywin looks at them a long while. His face falls, his shoulders deflate. He looks behind him before he leans closer to Jaime and Brienne, lowering his voice to a whisper to tell them, “I don’t think she’s well. She forbade me from seeing the child for weeks, Jaime.” 

He is silent, calculating the appropriate response. 

“We are battling traitors left and right. There is a swarm of Baratheons wanting to lay claim on the throne,” Tywin tells them. “She will not let the child out of her sight. She barely held the girls. Something is amiss.” 

“You're right, father. She is not well. Olivar was taken from us by men disguised as Lannister soldiers,” Jaime reveals, taking a chance. 

Tywin pales. “The men who accompanied me here... Cersei said she sent them back to Casterly Rock.” 

“More likely they are dead,” Brienne whispers, and they all understand that she took their Lannister armor and gave it to her own loyal soldiers. 

Tywin leans against the wall, stricken. 

“I want to call the High Septon,” Jaime says. “Arrest Cersei for adultery. None of her children are Robert’s. I can’t be the only one who has suspected. Maybe the only one willing to say it.” 

“We must be careful,” Tywin tells him. “If we assert Cersei has no right to the crown, we are putting all of Westeros at risk. We must have a plan in place.” 

“We should go somewhere safe to talk,” Brienne suggests. 

Tywin shakes his head. “This is a bad time. The two of you are not our only unexpected visitors.” 

Jaime’s eyes widen and Brienne, hopeful, smiles. 

“Ned Stark’s bastard son arrived to pledge himself to Cersei.” 

“Has he spoken to her yet?” Brienne asks, fearful. 

Tywin shakes his head. 

* 

Jon is standing at a window, framed by the haze of sunlight, when Jaime and Brienne are taken to him. He turns around and they rush to one another, embracing as a family would. Brienne clasps her hands around the young man’s face, taken aback by the scruff of dark hair growing on his cheeks and chin. He looks more grown every time she sees him. “You must stay quiet,” she advises in a whisper. 

“I am the key to getting Olivar back,” he argues. 

Brienne shakes her head. “I love how much you want to help, Jon, but you can’t put yourself in harm’s way. I can’t ask that of you. I can’t watch you sacrifice yourself.” 

“I don’t have to. Catelyn told me everyone who knew the truth had died. She was wrong. I found Howland Reed. I brought him here. He is in the city.” 

Jaime and Brienne are rendered speechless. She folds her hands over Jon’s shoulders and asks, “Do you want to be King, Jon?” 

“I want you to have your son back. I want my brothers and sisters to be safe with me. I don’t want any more death.” 

“I never thought I would say this, but my father is right,” Jaime concedes. “We can’t expect to get Olivar back without endangering others. We can’t make a play to weaken Cersei without a rightful ruler in place.” 

The three of them are silent as Jon turns back to the window. After a beat he faces them again, Jaime and Brienne standing side by side. “It could be you,” Jon says. “Both of you. Together.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne respond to Jon's suggestion they rule Westeros together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't know this would be the last chapter until I started writing it. I started this story with an image of one of the final scenes in my head and built on that. I hope this doesn't seem rushed, but I felt like to draw it out anymore would result in me losing direction and the time to complete it. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, sincerely, and for all of the lovely comments. I've never written anything this long and to know other people read and enjoyed it is astounding!

The silence that follows Jon’s statement – _It could be you. Both of you. Together._ – is long and filled with looks between Jaime and Brienne. Their faces contort, not knowing if the correct response is laughter or annoyance or outright refusal of the outrageous notion the two of them could rule Westeros. They both find their voices at the same moment, talking over one another. 

“Our life is in Lannisport.” 

“How would that ever work?” 

“We have no claim to the throne.” 

“No one would support that.” 

Jon waits for another silence and moves to stand closer to them. “If Howland Reed supports the fact that I’m the only living Targaryen, wouldn’t I have the authority to appoint the two of you to rule in my stead?” 

“You are talking about changing the order of succession that has existed for thousands of years,” Jaime says. 

“Perhaps that is what Westeros needs!” Jon counters. 

Brienne reaches out to rest a hand over his shoulder. “You may not want to rule now, but what if you change your-” 

“I won’t,” Jon states firmly. “I would rather serve you.” 

Brienne’s lips twitch into a smile despite her conflicted feelings over the proposal. “Jaime is right, though. You would have to first prove your right to the throne and be crowned King, and _then_ convince the Great Council to change ancient rules and elect Jaime and I to the throne.” 

“I did not hear the word ‘no’ from either of you,” Jon tells them. 

“Of course, we’re saying no, Jon,” Jaime remarks, looking to his wife for validation. She nods her agreement. 

“Saying no to what?” Tywin asks from the doorway. 

Jaime rolls his eyes. He looks at Jon, wordlessly pleading with him to keep his lips sealed. 

“I want Jaime and Brienne to be King and Queen of Westeros,” Jon says, firm in his conviction. 

Tywin stares at the three of them a long while before he walks into the room. “Go on, boy.” 

Jon smiles. “I can prove I am the rightful heir to the throne, and after, I would appoint Jaime and Brienne to rule in my stead. For I am far too young and frankly not interested. But they are both honorable and just and would-” 

“It’s ridiculous,” Jaime concludes. 

Tywin approaches Jon, standing beside him. He claps a hand over the younger man’s shoulder. “I did not give this boy enough credit. He is smart.” 

“Father!” Jaime throws his hands up, aghast. 

“Calm down,” Tywin says. “The two of you have been remarkable as the Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock. I may not be prone to expressing my approval, but you far exceeded my expectations. I don’t think the idea is as crazy as you posit. I think the council is more open to a new way of doing things than you imagine. We must dismantle Cersei’s power to reclaim your son and save the Seven Kingdoms.” 

Jaime looks at Brienne and feels the softness of her skin as her long fingers wind around his. “We are not agreeing to this,” he states, “but we have a lot to discuss. May we please have the room?” 

* 

The room darkens as the sun drops lower in the sky. Jaime sits on the floor, his back against the wall. The discussion he said they need to have is mostly long pauses as the two of them process everything and try to intuit what the other is thinking. “I don’t know if I could ever keep a promise to protect all of the Seven Kingdoms,” he says quietly. 

Brienne stops pacing and looks at him. 

“I’ve had trouble keeping multiple vows in the past.” 

She moves to kneel in front of him, framing his face with her hands. “I think you’ve done a wonderful job keeping your most important vows, Jaime,” she tells him. “Part of me wonders...” 

“What?” 

Brienne’s teeth worry at her bottom lip. 

“What, my lady?” Jaime prods gently. 

She drops her arms to her sides. “I never wanted to be a lady. I never wanted to be a wife. But now I cannot imagine a world where I am not married to you and working by your side. I’ve never felt more fulfilled, more purposeful, than when you and I fought the Bolton men and saved that family. When we fought the bear. When we are taking care of our sons. A long time ago, before you ever made promises to me, you vowed to protect the innocent and to be brave and just. Isn’t that what a king should be? Brave and just and protective of his people?” 

“Brienne,” Jaime says, barely audible. “What are you...” 

“I’m not so sure Jon’s proposal is a terrible idea. All I ever wanted was to be a knight. To help people. When I was made to marry you, I thought I would never have that opportunity. I was wrong.” She climbs to her feet and reaches down toward him. When Jaime takes hold of her hands, she tugs, urging him to stand. He does, and she holds onto him, mirroring the way they stood in the sept to recite marriage vows. “We were forced to be together. We took a situation we found terrible and made it something wonderful. We always do. I think the people of Westeros deserve something better, Jaime.” 

“You want this then?” he asks. 

She exhales a heavy breath. “I want to be with you and our children. I want us to be where we can do the most good for as many people as possible. If that is on Casterly Rock, so be it. But what if it’s here?” 

* 

The door creaks open and Jaime sees his father leaning against the wall beside the spot where Jon sits cross-legged on the floor. They both lift their gazes, expectant and nervous. 

“Okay,” Jaime says as he hears Brienne come up behind him, looking over his shoulder. 

“Okay what?” Tywin asks, a note of hope lifting his voice an octave. 

Brienne rests her hand against the middle of Jaime’s back and he announces, “We agree with Jon. We want to take the throne together.” 

Jon springs to his feet and Tywin, stunned at first, soon smiles broadly. 

“I’ll go to the High Septon,” Tywin tells them, nearly running down the hallway. 

Smiling, bouncing on his heels, Jon says, “This is... I’m so happy. This is what’s best for me and for Westeros and I hope for your family.” 

“Our family,” Brienne says. 

Jon tilts his head. 

“We want you to stay here with us. We’ll send for your brother and sisters when it’s safe to. Whatever you decide, you always have a home with us.” 

* 

Jaime, Brienne, and Jon remain in the castle under the cloak of darkness and distance from the Queen. With Tywin’s help they send a raven to Selwyn. It doesn’t feel safe to reveal every detail of their plan, but they ask him to leave for King’s Landing at once with Galladon. 

They fall asleep on the floor, Jon’s head on Brienne’s shoulder while Jaime rests his on her lap. They are awoken by a blood-curdling scream followed by stomping and clanking and the murmur of stern voices. The three of them rise from the floor and follow the sounds in time to see Cersei being dragged down a set of stairs, the High Septon on her heels. 

She looks ragged and pale and her cries are primal. She calls for help and in her search for a savior, Cersei’s eyes land on the trio of uninvited guests. The light returns to her eyes for a moment when she spies her brother, but soon she is filled with darkness and venom once again as understanding dawns. She kicks and screams as she is dragged away, launching curses at Jaime and Brienne the entire way. 

* 

The journey to King’s Landing was long and fraught, but once Cersei is arrested, everything happens rather quickly. 

Jon is declared the rightful heir to the throne and a new Kingsguard assembles to rally around him. Jaime and Brienne are taken to guest’s quarters in The Red Keep where they are given clean clothes, fresh water and honey wine, and a platter of fruit and bread. Best of all, the High Septon believes the claim that Olivar is their natural born son and Rose – having been kept alive and appointed to care for Olivar – carries the baby into the room. 

Leaping to their feet, they rush across the floor and Brienne takes the boy into her arms. She turns to Jaime and he wraps his arms around them both, dropping kisses on Olivar’s head – now covered in soft, pale hair. They cry and smile and cling to one another. 

Later, as Olivar sleeps in his mother’s arms and they catalog all the ways he has changed, Brienne calls for Rose. The young woman re-enters the room and says, “Yes, my lady?” 

“The baby Cersei had... the girl. What has become of her?” Brienne asks. 

“She’s been looked after, my lady.” 

Jaime stands. “Can we see her? Can you bring her here?” 

Rose nods and departs. She returns a long while later holding a baby, slightly smaller than Olivar, against her hip. 

“Does she have a name?” Jaime asks as he crosses the floor to meet them, taking the child into his arms. 

“No,” Rose states solemnly. 

Brienne and Jaime share a look, horrified. “We’ll have to change that,” he says. 

* 

Jon is crowned King without fanfare and immediately stands before the Great Council, assembled at the Dragon Pit. He is flanked by Jaime and Brienne as he presents his wishes for them to be named King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

Howland Reed speaks on his behalf. Tywin shows his support and promises if needed, he could gather thousands to declare the Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock more than fit to rule. 

“We need time,” Yohn Royce tells them. 

* 

In two moons time – after members of the Great Council have spoken to the houses in Lannisport and the smallfolk of King’s Landing - they announce a decision has been reached. As they gather in King’s Landing, Jon, Jaime, and Brienne await the announcement. 

The Throne Room is loud and vibrant, vastly different from how Jaime has always remembered it. 

Jon sits on the floor, more a child than a king. Galladon, having arrived with Selwyn to be reunited with his family, runs in circles. Olivar and his cousin, named Catelyn by Jaime and Brienne, roll around a blanket on the floor. Cersei’s other daughters – Joanna, Cassana, and Sylvie – chase after Galladon or play with dolls at the table. 

Jaime and Brienne sit side by side, watching the scene with smiles. She is about to remark on the joy and peace that has blessed everyone when there is a commotion at the door. 

“Is it time?” Jaime asks, standing and gripping Brienne’s hand. 

The Lord Commander shakes his head. “No, Ser Jaime. King Jon has visitors.” 

Before anyone can ask more questions, a fit of giggles erupts behind the Lord Commander. Sansa is the first to appear, running toward her older brother. Arya bounds into the room and surpasses her sister to launch herself at Jon where he sits, and behind them all, Bran teeters toward his siblings. 

Brienne, overcome, clasps a hand to her mouth as tears wet her eyes. 

* 

The waiting is less cumbersome in the wake of the happy reunion of Jon and the Stark children, but boredom sets in and the little ones demand a story. The burden falls on Jaime, but he stammers, unable to think of a tale to share. 

“Tell them about how you became a knight,” Jon suggests. 

Jaime hesitates, but soon all of the children are gathered around him. Brienne sits down, holding a sleeping Olivar in one arm and a sleeping Catelyn in the other, with Jon pressed against her side. With all eyes on him, Jaime describes the campaign against the Kingswood Brotherhood and being rewarded for his valor by Ser Arthur Dayne. 

At the end of his story, Arya hops to her feet and declares, “I’m going to be a knight!” 

“Girls can’t be knights,” Joanna states. 

Arya’s face falls and Sansa asks, “Why?” 

Brienne explains the role of tradition and Jon takes Catelyn from her arms. 

Jaime gets up and walks to the table at the other side of the room. He pours a glass of wine, takes a drink, and listens to his wife. He thinks about the word valor as it was explained to him many years ago – great courage in the face of danger. He recalls the way Brienne defended a helpless woman and her unborn child, and how she saved him from the bear. He can recite countless ways she is brave, just, and protects the innocent. 

“Any knight can make a knight,” Jaime says, throwing his voice across the wide room. 

Brienne pauses her explanation to look at him. 

“It’s true,” he says as he returns to the group. He looks at Brienne and says, “We’ve made a sport of upending tradition, my lady.” 

“Jaime,” she says, her tone scolding, “don’t be si-” 

He draws his sword. “Kneel.” 

Jon carefully places baby Catelyn on the blanket and takes Olivar from Brienne as she scoffs at Jaime’s instruction. 

“Kneel, Lady Brienne,” he repeats, his voice low and soft but commanding. 

Brienne stands. Her knees knock together. Jaime taps the tip of his blade on the floor and she crosses to him on wobbly legs. 

“Kneel,” he says again, and she does. His eyes lock with hers. He smiles, holding her gaze until a smile blooms on her face as well. Jaime takes a deep breath and lifts his sword, bringing it down to rest on her shoulder. “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave,” he recites. His smile fades, but he is no less happy; rather, the gravity of the situation strikes him. His hand trembles as he moves the sword to her other shoulder. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.” He moves the sword to the top of her head. His voice breaks as he says, “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect the innocence. Arise, Brienne of Tarth, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

The room erupts in applause and cheers. Although the youngest of the children are unsure what they are celebrating, they are no less enthusiastic as Brienne stands, beaming. 

“Let me be the first,” Jon calls out as he stands, holding Olivar, “to call you Ser Brienne.” 

A tear slides along the curve of Brienne’s cheek. Galladon runs over, wrapping his arms around her leg. Arya begins to jump and chant, “Ser Brienne! Ser Brienne!” The other children join in, dancing around her, and all the while her eyes never stray from Jaime’s. 

The Lord Commander goes unnoticed at the door until he bellows loud enough to overwhelm the children’s voices. Everyone turns to look at him and he announces, “The council is ready to share their decision.” 

Jaime sheathes his sword and darts toward Brienne. They hold hands while Jon places Olivar on the blanket beside his cousin. Leaving Rose to attend to the children, Jon, Jaime, and Brienne follow the Lord Commander to the Dragon Pit. 

The silence is a stark contrast to the chaotic joy of the throne room as they gather before the council. Brienne stands between Jon and her husband, holding their hands. Tywin looms nearby, tapping his foot nervously on the dirt. 

Brendan Tully, representing the council, stands from his seat. “Jaime and Brienne Lannister, at the behest of our young King, we have decided to appoint you King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

Jon moves to stand in front of them, throwing his arms around them both. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he whispers. He pulls back. “Ser Jaime, Ser Brienne, I owe you so much.” He drops to his knee. “I bend the knee to you, King Jaime and Queen Brienne.” 

* 

**One Moon Later**

The dress Brienne was expected to wear is still hanging in the wardrobe. She and Jaime decided to wear the clothing from their second wedding on the occasion of their coronation, and once her white gown and red satin cape were taken in at the waist, the fit was perfect. 

She is wearing the dress, and Jaime his gold brocade tunic, hours into the event. The celebration is still taking place on the grounds of their new home and in the surrounding city – they can hear the happy, drunken noise from the balcony of their bed chamber – but the new King and Queen of Westeros slipped away from the crowd to toast their new lives in the privacy of the keep. 

Jon, an honorary member of the Small Council, is watching over Sansa, Arya, and Bran. Rose and other handmaidens are tending to Galladon, Olivar, and the four girls born to Cersei but loved wholly by Jaime and Brienne. They often watch all of the children together and remark at how quickly their family has grown. 

“Will I ever get used to this?” Brienne asks, looking out at the gardens against the backdrop of Blackwater Bay and a night sky shining with an abundance of stars. Behind them, the ornate chambers are decorated with fresh flowers and a table is covered with decadent food and sweets and a variety of wine. 

Jaime, standing behind her, circles his arms around her waist. After a moment he lifts one hand to push the hair draped across her right shoulder to the other side, exposing the long column of her neck. His lips drop tender kisses there, and she sighs contentedly, and leans back against him. 

“I love you, Ser Queen Brienne,” he whispers in between kisses. 

Brienne turns around, hooking her arms around him. “I love you, Ser King Jaime.” 

He licks his lips before capturing hers in a soft but searing kiss. As she loosens the laces of his tunic, Jaime unclasps the lion’s head pinning the red cape together at her waist and the silk loosens. He rotates around and around, guiding them into the chambers and toward the bed. 

They pull apart at the sound of multiple feet pounding on the floor and suddenly the door pops open. All of the children spill into the room, and behind them Jon and Tyrion – panting from the chase – catch their breath. “We tried to stop them,” Tyrion says, holding his arms out, helpless to the strength and determination of the children. 

Jaime smiles as the kids swarm them and they all fall onto the bed together. He and Brienne end up side by side, on their backs. He tilts his head toward her as Galladon climbs onto his chest and Cassana clings to one of his legs. “This isn’t what I had in mind,” he says to her, smiling. 

She laughs and shrugs before she is lost to a fit of giggles as several of the children tickle her. Through the joyful chaos, Brienne sees the dress she rejected hanging in the wardrobe. She is reminded of a time that feels decades old, from another lifetime, when she waited for Jaime to return from the war. She had been expected to wear a certain dress, and on the evening of his return a feast had been set out that she’d thought was fit for a King and Queen. She had loathed it all. She felt above it all and somehow undeserving. She had felt that way about being Jaime’s wife. 

Before she was the Lady of Casterly Rock, Brienne dreaded taking marriage vows. She dreaded promising to spend her life with Jaime and being the Lady to his Lord. Now, she wanted nothing more than to honor the vows. She wanted nothing more than to show Jaime that together they could keep every promise they made – to each other, to their family, to their people.

-the end-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious, the scene that started this story for me was Jaime and Brienne surrounded by children - their own and not their own - as they waited to find out if they would be crowned King and Queen. I built backward from there but always knew this was where I wanted the story to end. 
> 
> As time permits, I hope to revisit this version of them and check in on the King and Queen and their enormous family.


End file.
